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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24113095">Soldier, Spy</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/philologer/pseuds/philologer'>philologer</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>RWBY</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Action, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Pre-Canon, Slow Build, Spy Shenanigans, Spy!Qrow, TRUST NO ONE, all the themes from vol 7 but in a different order with a different (better) ending, badass qrow, but i mean that's just canon, by about three years, oblivious idiots, please do trust some people actually, qrow deserves all the good things, shady things going on in atlas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:22:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>45,261</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24113095</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/philologer/pseuds/philologer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Qrow Branwen is sent to Atlas as Ozpin’s spy, in search of a traitor high up in Atlas’ command structure – but Salem’s pawns may not be the only danger Atlas holds. Surrounded by military personnel of unknown and dangerous loyalties, how can he know who to trust?</p><p>Clover Ebi doesn’t think there’s anything missing from his life. He has his team, and his job; personal relationships have always come a distant second to his role as a protector. The newly-arrived Qrow Branwen shouldn’t mean more to him than any other allied Huntsman – but he’s about to be proved wrong.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>187</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>189</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This takes place three years before the start of the show and diverges from there (Salem is trying some things she didn't try in canon).</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">The light was fading over Solitas. The tundra stretched out below, wide and white and barren, and the chill wind was picking up. Qrow flew on, scanning the deserted land with a corvid’s eyes.</p><p class="western">The airship he had taken from Sanus had brought him to one of the Kingdom of Atlas’ border towns, mostly a trading port, heavily fortified like all the rest of them. Theoretically the civilian town was distinct from the military base, but Qrow had never found that distinction was worth much in Atlas. He’d hung around for a few days, haunting the bars and growing increasingly uncomfortable, before deciding to move on.</p><p class="western">His plan, when he’d decided on whichever military town it was instead of taking a direct ship up to the city in the sky, had been to find some civilian trader making a trip to Mantle who’d be only too glad to have a Huntsman along for protection on the journey. Then he could make conversation with them along the way, see what they could tell him about the situation on the ground. Only when he’d got there, he’d found that no one had a trip like that lined up right now. Mostly, people were avoiding leaving the fortifications at all.</p><p class="western"><em> That </em> had told him something, and it hadn’t been anything that he’d wanted to hear.</p><p class="western">The only things moving north had been military transports and one Schnee Dust Company airship with a swaggering cohort of private security, and Qrow had decided he’d rather slit his own throat than pay the SDC for the <em> privilege </em> of making nice with their corporate bully-boys all the way to Atlas. Not to mention that throwing that officious middle-manager overseeing the cargo off the ship in mid-air would have been a <em> real </em> bad start to what was meant to be a low-profile mission. So he was making the flight on his own wings instead. It would take a couple of days, but he could deal.</p><p class="western">He kept his eyes flicking over the ground as he flew on. More featureless expanse. Some rocks were poking out of the permafrost to the north-west, but they wouldn’t provide any real shelter from the wind. Still, Qrow would fly all night if he had to: his bird form had better night vision than a non-magical crow, and he’d done longer flights before. At least this time it wasn’t Salem’s twisted sunless realm of pits and monsters.</p><p class="western">He couldn’t get his flask out for a drink while he was a bird. He shook the thought off and kept flying, adjusting his course slightly in response to the direction of the wind. The temperature was dropping fast now, and he hadn’t been warm to start with.</p><p class="western">Movement, in the distance, off to the west. Qrow banked and angled his flight in that direction. Knowing his luck, it wasn’t going to be anything good.</p><p class="western">The pack of Grimm took shape in his vision as he got closer: Ursai, the kind adapted for the cold of Solitas, all heavy clawed limbs and crushing maws, with spikes of ice in their matted fur. He didn’t like the way they were moving. There was a purpose to it, not the aimless milling of a pack of wandering Grimm that hadn’t found – or been <em> given </em> – a target yet. They were going somewhere.</p><p class="western"><em> Not my problem just yet, though</em>. There was nothing out here for them. They’d be making a try for the Mantle walls, or one of the mining settlements near the city; Qrow could outpace them there, pass the warning (if he could find someone who’d assume without questions it was a semblance that had got him past the Grimm to report on them, but that was usually a safe enough bet), rest up and grab some food before the pack got there, then join whatever defenders the place already had. Knowing Atlas, gun emplacements would get a few of the beasts before they even got close. He <em> really </em> didn’t want to have to fight two dozen Solitas Ursai on his own, especially not after flying all day through the cold.</p><p class="western">The lead Ursa reared up onto its hind legs – <em> it can’t see me</em>, Qrow reminded himself, holding his course, <em> I’m just a bird </em> – and roared, and Qrow saw its target.</p><p class="western">There was a crack in that patch of rocks up ahead, an opening to a cave or tunnel underground, and if the Grimm were heading there that meant it connected soon enough to a mineshaft someone had cut corners on arranging security for. If the Grimm were heading there <em> now </em>, then there were still workers in that mine.</p><p class="western">
  <em> Oh, gods damn it. All the gods, to all the hells, in all the stories Ozpin’s ever heard of. </em>
</p><p class="western">Qrow picked his target, and dived.</p><p class="western">Harbinger in greatsword form sliced the lead Ursa in half down the middle, propelled by the momentum of his descent, and Qrow made his landing in front of it as its corpse turned to ashes in the wind. It was too much to hope for that that would make the rest of the pack hesitate, of course. Three of them rushed him at once, with the rest not far behind.</p><p class="western">He flipped Harbinger into his left hand, slicing through the ice-crusted hide of the one that had thought it was going for his weaker side first. It fell back, and with a whir of gears he engaged Harbinger’s transformation as he ducked under the clawed paw of the second Grimm to swing the scythe into number three, ripping open its underbelly. The middle one bull-rushed him, and he put four shots into its less-armored lower jaw at point-blank range and hurled its corpse away to tangle up another incoming monster in the moment before it dissolved.</p><p class="western">After that, things got messy.</p><p class="western">Qrow hacked and slashed and dodged and spun, keeping track of how many enemies were left on a subconscious level that did not involve numbers, putting bullets into the ones at the back of the pack as he blocked the blows of the ones that got close. Ursai weren’t what you’d call fast, and their swipes were telegraphed before they even started moving, but with their numbers and the power they could put behind their hits there wasn’t always a way to evade them. Not when he had to stay more or less in one place, in front of the hole to the mine, so that some of the Grimm didn’t decide it was more interesting than he was and go tear it open. <em>All the joys of defending a bottleneck, with none of the actual advantages.</em></p><p class="western">He felt the claws rake across his aura as an Ursa’s swipe knocked him sideways into the air with an impact that rattled his teeth – he changed his shape, for one second, reversing his direction with a single wingbeat – he launched himself back at the pack from a different angle, with his weapon swinging. His vision blurred from the rapid changes, crow’s sight overlaid on his human field of view and muddling both, but they were massive beasts. He wasn’t going to miss. The one in front of him skidded on a patch of ice and a sweep of Harbinger took its head off; the one circling round behind him backed off at a shotgun blast, and he hacked off one of its paws as it retreated to join the rest of the pack.</p><p class="western">He was tiring fast now, but that didn’t matter. It was never any use dwelling on what you couldn’t change. His aura was still active, and there were still more Grimm and no other defenders in sight. He sucked in a ragged breath and readjusted his grip on his war-scythe.</p><p class="western">He swept the next one’s legs out from under it and fired half a dozen shotgun rounds into its eye; two shots hit, the rest ricocheting off its bone-mask. Swung Harbinger back into greatsword shape to block a mouthful of fangs heading for his shoulder – another Ursa’s backhand swipe caught him in the ribs, a dull flare of pain, but he used the momentum to rip Harbinger through the other Grimm’s skull and fell back a step while it dissolved. The next one was on him before he could catch his breath.</p><p class="western">Combat had a rhythm to it. Even with his body aching and his aura flickering, with the cold seeping into his bones, Qrow knew it well.</p><p class="western">And then it was over. Qrow dispatched the last Ursa with a scythe-blow, vision graying, and let himself lean on Harbinger as he stepped clear of that treacherous patch of ice his semblance had set up earlier. The thing in his peripheral awareness that he’d only thought of for the last few moments as <em>not a threat</em> resolved into an airship traveling at speed, low enough for an air-drop. <em>The glorious Atlas military arrives at last.</em></p><p class="western">“What happened, did you stop for coffee on the way?” he shouted at them. Or tried to shout. His voice came out hoarse and rasping in the cold air, and he couldn’t hold onto awareness long enough to see who or what was jumping out of the ship before he blacked out.</p>
<hr/><p class="western">Most Huntsmen would have at least hesitated to start a search and destroy mission so close to nightfall, but the Ace-Ops were not most Huntsmen. Vine had said it would be best to respond promptly before the pack of Ursai that were apparently lurking around the outskirts of SDC Mine #5 got riled up and made an attack on the fortifications, and Harriet had been getting frustrated after a day spent indoors at the Academy. And there was no reason to leave people waiting in fear for a response, even if the intel analysis had said the mine would be safe until morning. So Clover had taken that half of his team to deal with the Grimm – this mission didn’t call for <em>all</em> the Ace-Ops – plus a cohort of Knight-130s to provide reinforcements for the mining outpost afterwards, because the overseer who’d made the call had sounded spooked. Now they were flying a search pattern across the tundra, geared up and ready for combat.</p><p class="western">“Contact!” snapped Harriet, always the quickest off the mark, and Clover turned to zero in on what she’d seen. “Four Grimm, maybe five, clustered together, at 11 o’clock!”</p><p class="western">“I see them,” said Clover, eyes on the indistinct shapes up ahead, and didn’t give any commands because none were necessary. Their pilot was already adjusting her approach vector, and his team knew their deployment strategies.</p><p class="western">Vine was still scanning the surrounding area. “We should be on the lookout for the rest of the pack, too,” he warned. “The mission briefing said between twenty and thirty Ursai.”</p><p class="western">“We focus on the ones in front of us first,” said Clover firmly, and ran his hand across his lapel pin.</p><p class="western">“Four,” said Harriet, her attention still directed out the window at the Grimm, “no, three –” Her tone sharpened. “They’re attacking someone.”</p><p class="western">“Take us in!” Clover ordered the pilot. “Now!”</p><p class="western">He could see the person Harriet had spotted now too, though not clearly: a lone Huntsman, a tall and lean silhouette armed with a scythe. They were making incredibly skilled use of it, even though they seemed to be pinned down and tiring.</p><p class="western">As Clover watched, one of the Ursai rushed the Huntsman, knocking them down, and there was a heart-stopping moment before the scythe-blade emerged from its back and twisted. The Huntsman staggered back to their feet, swaying, a ragged cape blowing behind them in the wind, and turned without pause to block the next attack. The dropship was already flying at maximum safe speed; Clover flexed his fingers on Kingfisher, braced and ready for the moment he could jump.</p><p class="western"><em>We’ll get there in time,</em> he told himself. <em>We have to.</em></p><p class="western">The last Ursa fell with a thud and dissipated just before the Ace-Ops’ ship reached insertion range, but Clover’s leap did get him to the ground in time to save the other Huntsman from hitting his head on the rocks as he collapsed. The man weighed too little for his height, and looked like he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in a very long time, but the scythe now lying beside him was well-maintained. The reason he had made a stand against the Grimm here and now was clear now too; Clover pointed out the breach in the rocks to his teammates with a nod as they dropped down beside him, and Vine went to check it over, making a disapproving noise in his throat.</p><p class="western">Harriet was poised on the balls of her feet, scanning their surroundings for the rest of the pack of Grimm that should have been out there, but Clover didn’t sense any threats in the area. Everything was quiet.</p><p class="western">“If the pack was nearby, they would have attacked by now,” he said, to both the Ace-Ops rather than specifically to Harriet. She grumbled, but relaxed a little, back to ‘mission-awareness’ rather than ‘hair-trigger tense’.</p><p class="western">“If the pack was in the vicinity,” Vine contributed, “they would have joined the fight against this stranger. It is possible they did.” He was frowning down at the gap in the rocks. “If the Grimm had been able to force this opening, they could have broken into an unguarded sector of the Dust mine. That would have been… unpleasant.”</p><p class="western">Clover looked down at the unconscious man in his arms. <em>Did he really fight off the entire pack on his own?</em> “Well then,” he said, “we were lucky he was here.”</p>
<hr/><p class="western">Qrow’s awareness came back to him gradually, through a haze that wasn’t quite going away. He could feel the bone-deep weariness that came with recent aura depletion, and his head was swimming, but nothing hurt any more. He could fight if he needed to. He was warm and lying in an unfamiliar bed, still fully-clothed. Someone was watching him, close enough they’d probably have noticed he was awake.</p><p class="western">“What happened last night?” he groaned, and cracked his eyes open against the light.</p><p class="western">The room he was in had the same generic feel to it as the apartments for visiting faculty at Beacon, except that those at least had some color to them that wasn’t white-and-blue, and some pictures on the walls.<em> I’m in Atlas. Ugh.</em> He spotted Harbinger propped up in a corner by the doorway into the main room of the apartment, though, and relaxed a little.</p><p class="western">“I’d like to hear that myself.” The man sitting in a chair beside his bed had well-defined biceps, tanned skin and a firm jaw and wore a heavily-modified Atlas military Huntsman’s uniform with a popped collar. He offered Qrow an easy smile. “I expect it’s quite a story. Clover Ebi,” he added, and Qrow pulled himself to a sitting position belatedly to return his nod of greeting. “My team and I were planning to deal with that pack of Ursai, but it looks like you got there first.”</p><p class="western">This would be the guy who’d been in the airship, then. <em>And then I passed out like an idiot the moment the fight was done,</em> Qrow filled in. <em>Damnit, I’m usually better at keeping going, how pathetic can I </em> <em> <b>get</b> </em> <em> – </em>“Qrow Branwen,” he supplied, shoving that train of thought aside. He summoned up a lopsided smile. “Wasn’t planning to steal your kills. I was gonna keep moving and report their location to you lot, but…”</p><p class="western">“But then they found a gap in the mine’s defenses, and you were the only one there to stop them.” Clover was looking at him with something strange in his expression. “My teammates are making sure the gap’s repaired, and they’ll be prepared if the rest of the pack shows up, but I don’t think they need to worry about <em>that</em>. Do you agree?”</p><p class="western">Qrow shrugged. “Didn’t see any more of them.” He dredged up numbers through the haze over his memory. “There were about twenty of them, by my count.”</p><p class="western">“And you faced them all down alone.” Qrow would have expected Clover to be skeptical, but he didn’t sound it. “Impressive.”</p><p class="western">Qrow snorted. “I’m a Huntsman, it’s part of the job description, that’s all.”</p><p class="western">“I disagree,” said Clover. He sounded utterly sincere.</p><p class="western">His eyes were very green.</p><p class="western">Qrow felt pinned down – exposed – his head was still spinning – <em>He doesn’t mean it,</em> he reminded himself forcefully. <em>Not like that.</em></p><p class="western">“Is that how I earned the personal attention of a <em>Specialist</em>?” he sneered, shoving the blankets aside for better freedom of movement. “A team leader, too, the elite of the elite. This the part where I’m supposed to thank you for the <em>honor</em>?”</p><p class="western">“What? No, that’s not –”</p><p class="western">“Or did you want a <em>salute</em>?” Qrow could find a sort of satisfaction in seeing Clover caught off guard. He got to his feet – he still felt shaky, but he could cope – and waved an arm around him at the room. “Here I am waking up in a military apartment because I helped out Atlas <em>one time</em>. Am I being conscripted or something?” He made for the doorway, but stumbled before he’d got halfway there. Leaned against the wall to catch his breath, glaring at Clover, who’d stood up but stopped himself before he could reach out to him.</p><p class="western">“I don’t know how you think Atlas operates, but that’s really <em>not</em> the way we do things.” Clover sighed. “Yes, I put you in one of the visiting Huntsman apartments to recover. I thought you’d prefer it to waking up in Medical. I certainly <em>don’t</em> think you’d prefer we left you in the tundra. And then I stayed to explain the situation to you when you woke up. I’d certainly appreciate it if a Huntsman of your caliber were to stay and help us, but…”</p><p class="western">“If I want to leave, <em>can I go</em>?”</p><p class="western">Clover stepped forward to lay a hand on Qrow’s shoulder. Warmth radiated out from where he touched him. “If you want to leave, I’ll escort you out myself. But you’re in no shape to go <em> anywhere </em> right now. If nothing else, you should eat something first.”</p><p class="western">Qrow felt his head coming clear at last and remembered – he had a <em> mission </em> here. Grimm attacks on Atlas had been escalating, but it was more than that: skilled Huntsmen were getting killed more often than they should be, and so were independents, and from the friends-of-friends of Beacon graduates Ozpin had heard about the disappearances of some of the regular footsoldiers in Atlas too. Ozpin had said it looked to him like there was a traitor high up, or at least someone Salem was using. He’d also said that he and Ironwood had had some <em> disagreements </em> lately – as if that was new – and that he knew the general was keeping secrets from him. So he’d sent Qrow to poke into everything that was going on. And he’d just almost botched it from the start by throwing a <em> stupid </em> hissy-fit about the military.</p><p class="western">Clover grinned suddenly. “How about I make you breakfast, and then you decide? Or there’s the mess hall, but I wouldn’t recommend that except in emergencies.”</p><p class="western">“Breakfast, huh?” Qrow stepped away, but looked Clover up and down, making his appreciation obvious (there was usually no harm in looking), and smirked. “Damn, last night must have been <em>good</em>.”</p><p class="western">“If we spend the night together,” said Clover, amused, “I guarantee you’ll remember it.” He returned the look with a smile. And winked.</p><p class="western">Right. Mission back on track, successfully recovered from the fuck-up he’d almost made of it. Qrow forced away the feeling of warmth from Clover’s look; <em> that </em> obviously wasn’t going to go anywhere. But he had a route into the upper tiers of the Atlas military now, hopefully one that would leave him independent enough to disappear sometimes to investigate other things too. Ironwood only knew him as one of the various Beacon graduates Ozpin handed specific missions to sometimes, not as Ozpin’s best and only scout, and no one else should have any idea of even that much. He let himself exchange comments with Clover more or less on autopilot, staying at a safe distance as breakfast was assembled. The apartment kitchenette was stocked with the basics, and it turned out Clover was good at cooking.</p><p class="western">Qrow made sure to eat right-handedly. There was a traitor here somewhere, and it was always best to keep some advantages under wraps.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I said slow burn and I meant it</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">“<span><span><span>Right,” said Clover, leaning back in his chair with a sigh of relief – the food was mostly gone now, and Qrow looked much better now he wasn’t trying to pretend he wasn’t about to fall over – “do you still want me to show you out?”</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Qrow was hardly the first Huntsman he’d met who had unfounded opinions about the system in Atlas, of course. He had nothing on Robyn Hill, who Clover had crossed paths with any number of times in Mantle and who really should have known better considering she’d spent four years at Atlas Academy herself. He’d be disappointed if Qrow wanted to leave – Atlas really could use more Huntsmen with his apparent skill right now – but he couldn’t keep him here.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Also, Qrow was undeniably handsome, had a sense of humor and didn’t take Clover too seriously – but that had nothing to do with anything.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Qrow scowled down at his plate, chasing the last few </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>crumbs</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> around with his fork. “That depends.”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>On something I can help you with?”</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Qrow looked up at last, and met his eyes. “It’s – look. I was coming to Atlas in the first place because I hear you’re having a lot more attacks than usual. I’m pretty itinerant, I go wherever I’m needed, and I was planning to stay a couple months at least. And an apartment next door to the Specialists and a way to work with you lot sounds a lot better than finding some crappy hostel in Mantle and taking whatever bounties even make it to the mission boards down there – </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>if</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> there’s a way to make it work.” His eyes were a </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>faded</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> shade of red, but his stare was intense. “I don’t do well with all that chain of command yes-sir no-sir shit, and I’m not signing on to believe Atlas is the greatest of the kingdoms and the only way to run things. I can bite my tongue if that really </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>is</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> the only way to help – help the </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>people</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> of Atlas, not the kingdom – but if I don’t get any say in what I’m doing at all, </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>then </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>someone’s go</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>nna</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> get thrown off a roof.” His lips quirked, not quite a smile. “It’ll probably be me.”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>That’s not a problem at all,” said Clover, relieved. “We’re always glad to have independent Huntsmen willing to work with us. We can second you to the Specialists: you’d have clearance for everything that isn’t classified, room and board and a stipend on a month-to-month basis, and you’d be expected to take missions but you’d have your discretion as to which ones. Including ones posted in Mantle – but you’re right, there won’t be much information about what’s needed down there.” Qrow was nodding along to his recital: he </span></span></span><span><em><span>was</span></em></span><span><span><span> going to stay. “You’d have time to yourself, no restrictions on conduct while you’re off-duty… You </span></span></span><span><em><span>would</span></em></span><span><span><span> have to obey orders from senior Specialists while on-mission, within reason.”</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Qrow rolled his eyes. “I figured. I can put up with that.”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>Then I can get that set that up for you this morning.”</span></span></span><span><span><span>Clover was surprised by the strength of the relief that welled up inside him. But of course, the kingdom was in a difficult situation right now. They needed people willing to work with them.</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>What, just like that?” Qrow was looking at him sidelong.</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Clover shrugged. “It’s a straightforward procedure; there’s a form for it. Any Specialist could handle it.”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>Uh-huh. But you’re not just any Specialist, are you?”</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>He’s perceptive.</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> Clover’s smile broadened; the Ace-Ops initiative really was something special, and he was proud to have a place in it. “My team and I are the Ace Operatives. We were handpicked by General Ironwood himself; our skills complement each other so we can co-ordinate perfectly on missions.”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Qrow whistled. Clover hadn’t known it was possible to make a whistle sound sarcastic. “Fancy. You sure you’ve got time to hang around making breakfast for the likes of me?”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Clover chuckled; he was surprised how refreshing he found it, to meet someone who wasn’t impressed by his position in the slightest but who wasn’t being cruel about it. “Well, I do have a mission report to write, but ‘the day was saved by someone else before we got there’ is going to look a lot better if I can add ‘the man who did it is now on our payroll’ in the next paragraph.”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Qrow stood up abruptly, and reached with his long-limbed grace to collect up the dishes. “So it’s paperwork either way for you, huh?”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>The glamorous life of a team leader.” Clover kept his tone light, but he was watching Qrow thoughtfully. “Don’t worry, we don’t make seconded personnel do mission reports. Not any more, at least.”</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>That was the second time now that he’d given Qrow a compliment and the other man had brushed it off. That second one Clover hadn’t even intended as a compliment, just a statement of fact: Qrow </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>had</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> saved the mine. If he hadn’t been there then by the time the Ace-Ops had arrived the Ursai would have broken into the tunnel and spread out into miles of underground passageways full of undefended workers. No one could have faulted him for going for help rather than stepping up to hold off a whole pack of Grimm on his own, either; Clover hadn’t been exaggerating the first time when he’d said he was impressed. But Qrow seemed resistant to any praise, or even acknowledgement of what he’d done.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>That isn’t right,</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> thought Clover. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>With his skills and his selfless nature, a few compliments shouldn’t be anything unusual for him.</span>
    </em>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>I </span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>could</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span> fix that.</span>
    </em>
  </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Getting himself signed on to this secondment thing turned out to be just as simple as Clover had made it sound. Qrow linked his Huntsman license to the terminal and signed a declaration, and skipped past all the other information the form wanted him to add (weapon, semblance, past history, mission preferences… all optional, and he didn’t bother). And that was it. He was officially more-or-less part of the Atlas military machine. Obligated to follow orders, </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>within reason</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>He carefully wasn’t asking what </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>within reason</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> covered. If everything was above board, then he wouldn’t be ordered to do anything actually unreasonable. If it wasn’t, then ‘I didn’t know that didn’t count’ could save him once, the first time he disobeyed. At least, assuming Ironwood wasn’t up to anything </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>much</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> worse than Ozpin suspected. He grimaced at the terminal, and Clover’s muscled back where he was signing off on the form.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>And that’s that,” said Clover, turning back around with a smile and clapping him on the shoulder. Qrow really wasn’t used to this much friendliness from complete strangers, but obviously Clover was like that with everyone and he needed to stop overthinking it. “I’ve got a meeting with my team in an hour, and then I’m on call, but before that I can give you the tour. Show you everywhere you’re now entitled to go.”</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>Sure,” said Qrow, and went to pick up Harbinger, folding it and stowing it in its harness on his back in one motion. He could sense Clover’s interest as he watched him, and didn’t let himself twitch. “You’re that desperate to avoid writing your mission report, huh?”</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>We got off on the wrong foot earlier. I’d like to make that up to you by showing you everything Atlas has to offer.” They headed out of the door, into a blue-and-white corridor. </span></span></span><span><em><span>When Atlas picks a theme, they stick to it.</span></em></span><span><span><span> “The weapons labs, for instance. If you need any repairs or upgrades to your gear, our engineers can see to it.”</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>Convenient.” </span></span></span><span><em><span>In more ways than one. </span></em></span><span><span><span>Qrow reached back to touch his weapon’s hilt. “No one works on Harbinger but me. But if you could show me to one of those labs that I can use, I’d appreciate it.”</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>Of course.” More corridors, these ones with</span></span></span><span><span><span>out windows, deep inside the Academy’s lower levels</span></span></span><span><span><span>. A pair of Huntsmen in white greatcoats passed them in the other direction, nodding to Clover in a way that was basically a salute, the younger one looking curiously at Qrow. Clover smiled at them, too. “Harbinger, huh?” he said once they’d gone, sounding faintly amused.</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>Yeah. Harbinger.” Qrow pulled his flask out of his pocket and took a swig. He was going to need to buy more. This place didn’t exactly have a liquor license.</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Clover was averting his eyes, pointedly.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>What,” said Qrow, “you said no restrictions on conduct.” </span></span></span><span><em><span>And if there are any, best to find out now.</span></em></span></p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>I suppose I did.” Clover bit back a sigh. “Don’t drink in front of the students. Though I don’t expect you’ll spend much time with them.”</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>If this was a different sort of mission, Qrow would have said </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>hey, who do you think you’re talking to, I’m an accredited schoolteacher</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> and watched Clover’s jaw drop. Spun it out for a while, seen how much more flustered he got when he found out it was all true; he bet the guy’s expressions would be fantastic. But he needed to avoid being surprising here, let people categorize him and think they understood him. And he didn’t want to tell a stranger </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>anything</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> about Patch.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>Not likely,” he agreed, with a lopsided smile.</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>Then we don’t have a problem.”</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Yeah, there was definitely something </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>professional</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> about that friendliness. Clover was all charm and smiles again now as they continued through the halls, but he’d put it on pause for a few moments there, and Qrow bet he could turn it off entirely if his rules and orders told him to. Like flicking a switch: no hesitation, no regrets.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Briefing rooms here, dimly-lit and full of glowing projector screens. Mess hall there, looking like any other institutional cafeteria. The training room was off limits right now: apparently they shared it with the senior students at the Academy. There was some rigmarole about when and how you could book a timeslot for it, “or you can just show up at any time after 1800 and before reveille and see who’s there throwing each other around,” Clover added with a carefree smile. Qrow wondered what his weapon was; he wasn’t carrying it on him. He couldn’t tell what he’d been trained with from how he moved, so it wouldn’t be anything straightforward, </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>that was for sure</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>They walked through records rooms full of terminals to look in on the back end of the library, which some architect had really gone to town on; Qrow got the impression Clover wanted to show it off. The students in the library, all washed-out looking in their white and gray uniforms, saluted him and Clover equally, and Qrow was bitterly glad that Clover steered him back into the military-only areas immediately afterwards.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Clover didn’t trust him around the students. That was – fine. Everything was fine. He had a job to do here, and whoever was disappearing those troopers was someone on the military side of things, not a teacher; he didn’t need to be spending time around those unnervingly obedient mini-cadets, and the students didn’t need his semblance getting in their way either.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>He really should be over this by now. He knew what he looked like, to the likes of </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>Ace Operative</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> Clover </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Ebi</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>; hell, he did half of it on purpose. A washed-up old drunk, arrogant and crass, skilled at fighting but not </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>real</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> good for much else… It was good cover. Didn’t mean it didn’t sting, sometimes.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>They took another flight of stairs down to the research division, and Qrow started paying attention to their surroundings again.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>They were passing through a sterile white corridor interspersed with doors, and lined with observation windows into the labs beyond. Clover was talking about the upgrades he could make to his gear, the scientists he could consult with if he had ideas he wasn’t sure how to make reality, and Qrow paid enough attention to make the right responses, but he was cataloging the labs out of the corner of his eye.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Robots in that one: a newer, shinier model than Atlas’ current androids, with better joint flexibility and a more PR-friendly white paintjob. Experimental weaponry in the next one, a white-haired scientist in a mechanized chair overseeing a test of some kind of </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>glaring</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> green energy beam that fizzled out as he looked on. Further on Qrow could see an entire hangar </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>with</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> a giant bipedal machine of some sort </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>in it,</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> and past that a couple of weapons workshops that didn’t look much different from his old classroom at Signal, except a lot less messy and with a bunch of robot arms on the ceiling. And a lot of windows with sealed shutters over them, too. The classified projects.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>Or some of them, anyway. </span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>There would be another level somewhere, dug deep into the floating landmass, where the Winter Maiden was being kept – and Ironwood </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>said</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> she’d agreed willingly to Atlas’s protection, that she needed medical care, but who knew – and there could be more down there, that the likes of Clover didn’t know about either. Unless being leader of the </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>Ace-Ops</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> meant that he did.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>You can use any of these workshops here, if your Scroll will open them for you,” Clover was saying, and interrupted himself as a short, dark-skinned woman wearing armor over her Specialist’s uniform stepped out of one of the privacy-shielded labs Qrow had been side-eyeing. The door sealed itself behind her with a ping. Clover nodded in greeting to her, as one colleague to another. “Oh, hello, Marina.”</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>Ebi,” said the woman coolly, “good to see you.” She didn’t </span></span></span><span><em><span>sound</span></em></span><span><span><span> like it was a good thing, but maybe that was just what ‘pleased’ looked like on her face, because her frown turned deeper and more disgusted when she looked at Qrow beside him. She eyed his torn cloak and the stains on his shirt like they were a personal attack. “I presume he’s authorized to be here?”</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>Of course,” said Clover, in a perfectly friendly tone. “This is –”</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>Qrow Branwen,” Qrow interrupted, taking a pointed step forward out of Clover’s shadow to sneer back at her. “</span></span></span><span><em><span>Visiting</span></em></span><span><span><span> Huntsman from Vale. I heard you lot have been having some </span></span></span><span><em><span>trouble</span></em></span><span><span><span> lately, I thought you could use my </span></span></span><span><em><span>help</span></em></span><span><span><span>.” He put his hands behind his head and looked down at her with the same vicious scrutiny she was giving him: her height (5’1 in armored boots, at </span></span></span><span><em><span>best</span></em></span><span><span><span>), her close-cropped hair, the freckles spattered across her face. Her crisp, pristine uniform, and the gleaming polish on her breastplate and tassets.</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>She was carrying a helmet under her right arm, white-enameled and with high cheek guards, just like the faces of those new fucking robots behind them. Qrow wondered with sick amusement which had come first. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>Ironwood and his fucking wind-up soldiers.</span>
    </em>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>Special Operative Marina Glass,” said the wind-up soldier, biting off each word. “Atlas appreciates whatever contribution you are capable of making.” Her tone made it </span></span></span><span><span><span>very </span></span></span><span><span><span>clear how dubious she thought that </span></span></span><span><em><span>contribution</span></em></span><span><span><span> was.</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>I wouldn’t have seconded anyone who wasn’t capable,” said Clover: not </span></span></span><span><em><span>exactly</span></em></span><span><span><span> coming to his defense, but Qrow hadn’t expected any consideration from him at all, when it came down to a choice between Qrow or an oh-so-special Specialist. </span></span></span><span><em><span>What the hell is he thinking?</span></em></span></p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>I’m sure,” said Glass, back to neutral, and checked the door behind her was locked before she stepped away from it. “Ebi, I’ll see you in the General’s briefing this afternoon. Branwen… I will be interested to see what you can do. Some other time.”</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Qrow summoned up a grin, let it shade into ‘flirtatious’. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll make an impression.”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>The wind-up soldier</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> seemed to decide that ignoring the implications of that was her best move. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have a shift on the wall to get to.” She turned on her heel and strode past them towards the staircase they’d come down earlier.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>Marina.” Clover put out a hand to touch her shoulder as she passed him, and she paused. “Good luck out there.”</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Her expression might have been a smile, if you were generous with definitions, or at any rate it softened slightly. “Thank you, Clover. This afternoon.” She nodded to her colleague and was gone.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Qrow reached for his flask again. And didn’t say anything about </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>luck</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>You know,” said Clover, in a tone that might have been a friendly suggestion and might not, “I don’t think you and Marina are compatible.”</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>Huh?” Qrow stoppered his flask. “Oh, right.” Right, he’d hit on her. It had been a convenient way out of </span></span></span><span><span><span>kind of </span></span></span><span><span><span>a painful conversation. Even if he’d thought he had a shot with any of these perfect orderly professionals he wouldn’t have gone for the one who looked at him like that; he didn’t hate himself </span></span></span><span><em><span>that</span></em></span><span><span><span> much.</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>Clover, buddy, you’re breaking my heart,” he drawled. “I had the whole wedding planned out and everything.”</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Clover made a stifled snort, like he was trying not to laugh.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Qrow warmed to his theme, </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>gesturing expansively</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>. “There was gonna be a chocolate fountain, and a glass chandelier, and a chorus of dancing Atlesian Knights –”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Clover gave up trying to hide it, and his laughter echoed off the corridor’s pristine walls. Qrow found himself chuckling a little too.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Qrow held onto the memory of that laughter, once Clover had gone back to his team and left him alone in the workshop with a flask running nearly empty. The silence in the room was oppressive. Even the clocks in Atlas didn’t tick.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Still, he might as well use the time. He replaced that one cog in Harbinger’s transformation gears that always broke eventually – his semblance hadn’t stripped the teeth too badly yet, but when he went looking he could see the first signs of wear had showed up – and checked over the rest for faults. He sharpened the blade, and filled in a couple of scratches. Eventually he realized he was waiting for Clover to come back – </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>and do what? </span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <b>Smile</b>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span> at you again? Pathetic, Qrow, just pathetic</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> – and stalked out of the room before he could think about that further.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>So how much was a seconded Huntsman’s clearance worth, exactly?</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Qrow tried his Scroll on the door to the lab with the giant machine in, and was slightly surprised when it unlocked itself for him. Up close, the machine looked like a battlesuit, with a metal shell in it for some poor bastard to sit in and pilot. It was heavily armed, but didn’t look like much of a threat to a Huntsman. And it wasn’t anything Ironwood was keeping secret.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>He tried the doors systematically, avoiding the rooms he could see had people in. He had access to some of the privacy-shielded labs (one held some scorched and half-disassembled beam turrets, the sort they had on the Mantle walls; the other was full of white-coated theoretical researchers who accepted his claim</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>s</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> of curiosity and were happy to explain their </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>incomprehensible</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> Dust experiments at </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>great</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> length), but not to most of them. Not to the one </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Marina </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Glass had been in.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Not worth breaking in yet. He’d come back to them later for another look.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>He didn’t look round when he heard footsteps approaching from the end of the corridor, just went on trying the next door. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>Who, me? I’m not doing anything wrong, no sir!</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> The lock beeped a negative at him, and he turned and smiled at the newcomer, a pale, silver-haired woman in lab coat and glasses. “Hey,” he called, “care to help out the new guy? Clover said Specialists get access to these labs down here, to repair and upgrade our gear –”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>The scientist adjusted her glasses and blinked at him. “Only to the non-classified ones,” she corrected. “And </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>that</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> one’s for testing Dust combinations, so I doubt it would help, Specialist…?”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>Qrow Branwen.” </span></span></span><span><em><span>Ah well, it was worth a shot. </span></em></span><span><span><span>He frowned, waved a hand </span></span></span><span><span><span>vaguely</span></span></span><span><span><span> at the corridor behind him. “I </span></span></span><span><span><span>know</span></span></span><span><span><span> I saw another Specialist come out of one of these labs, though, what was up with that?”</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>I’m Dr Sable.” Her lips compressed in disapproval – and not, in fact, of him. “Some senior Specialists have additional responsibilities, oversight of particular projects. Onyx Churmon, for one, and Marina Glass… Not that they’re scientists themselves, to be clear. They’re just an additional set of eyes on the project specifications.”</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>Right. Well, I’m sure it wouldn’t make any sense to me.” Looked like this angle was a bust. He’d try something else later.</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>You joined up recently, Specialist Branwen?” Dr Sable blinked at him again. She looked very tired, </span></span></span><span><span><span>in a way Qrow knew all too well</span></span></span><span><span><span>. “Thank you. Things have been… difficult lately. Though I’m sure the attacks will settle down again, of course –”</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western">“<span><span><span>Of course,” Qrow said. His stomach twisted. He gave her a confident smile.</span></span></span></p>
<hr/>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>He flew down to Mantle as a bird, to have a few moments where he wasn’t being looked at like a soldier. Bought a couple of bottles of the terrible vodka they drank in Solitas, to stock in that blank white-walled military apartment, and sat on a roof with his legs dangling over the edge, watching the people below and the news broadcasts on the screens. There were a lot of robots on the street. Some human troopers, too. Not many ordinary people, </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>and those there were kept their heads down</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> – it was the middle of the day, </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>sure, </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>they’d mostly be at work, but still, things didn’t feel right.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">“– <span><em><span>amid growing concern at the increasing number of attempted Grimm attacks on the Mantle walls and yesterday’s announcement of the death of Specialist Viola Varga. Speaking for General Ironwood, Specialist Marina Glass said, ‘Our defenses stand strong. Atlas will prevail. –’”</span></em></span></p>
<p class="western">“– <span><em><span>Independent Huntress Robyn Hill denies any involvement in last night’s robbery and vandalism of several Schnee Dust Company stores. The perpetrator, who is known to have attended Hill’s fundraising rally for the Crater district the previous evening, is now in custody –”</span></em></span></p>
<p class="western">“– <span><em><span>sweeping new powers, in response to the current state of heightened threat in the kingdom. Asked to comment on the Council’s handling of the situation, Jacques Schnee –”</span></em></span></p>
<p class="western">None of the news was pleasant, either.</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>I’m sure things will settle down again,</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> that scientist had said, because as far as she knew Grimm attacks were a matter of negative emotion and bad luck, and not someone’s </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>plan</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>. Someone up in Atlas had sold out to Salem and was responsible for all of this.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>And it was up to Qrow to stop it.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Qrow went back up to Atlas by airship, like someone who didn’t believe in magic. Smiled at the troopers on the academy gates who saluted him, without baring </span>
  <em>too</em>
  <span> many teeth. Looked over the mission boards: Grimm lurking in the sewers of Mantle, Grimm massing in packs beyond the range of the wall defenses, active missions defending mining outposts and border towns… Specialists whose names on the mission boards were followed by </span>
  <em>contact lost </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>mission terminated</em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Put me to work,” he said.</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Clover smiled at him just the same way he smiled at everyone else.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>According to the wiki Winter is five or six years older than Weiss, so three years before canon she must still be a student at the academy. Therefore, the role of ‘General Ironwood’s straight-laced right hand woman who loathes Qrow on sight’ will today be played by Marina Glass.</p>
<p>I promise Winter will show up later in the fic.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>In any other time and place, perimeter defense would be the most straightforward type of Huntsman mission. The job you’d hand to the rookies and the recently-injured, to get them settled in. In those other times, Qrow would have taken the mere suggestion he go spend half a night standing on a wall alongside the regular </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>soldiers</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span> as an insult. (He didn’t count as recently-injured. He was </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span>. He’d always recovered quickly, and those Ursai hadn’t even scratched him.)</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>Here and now, it wasn’t. When Qrow had asked how Atlas could </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>use</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span> him Clover had cast a grim look over those mission boards and the roster of active Specialists and said “We need more people on the wall. Tonight, ideally” and Qrow had </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>volunteered</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span>.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span><span>Nice night for it, huh?” the Huntsman assigned to this section of Mantle’s defenses with him said now.</span></span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>Qrow side-eyed him, incredulously. That one didn’t even require a response. Admittedly it wasn’t snowing </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>yet</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span>, but that was about all you could say for the conditions tonight. The wind was howling around their ears, and he could see clouds forming in the west, starting to block out the aurora.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<em><span>Really</span></em><span><span>?” he snarked, since Cadmium was staring out at the tundra with hooded eyes and his hand on his axe and didn’t seem to have noticed his expression. Qrow did another check of the skies. The clouds weren’t thick enough yet to hide a pack of flying Grimm, and there was nothing moving up there except the aurora shimmer.</span></span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>The massive black-bearded man sighed, and his face crumpled. It made him look as melancholy as a kicked puppy, if puppies could be nearly seven feet tall and broader-shouldered than Clover Ebi. “No. Not really.” He took another swig from his thermos of coffee, which he’d been reaching for compulsively all evening, like – well. Like Qrow with his flask.</span>
  </span>
  
  <span>
    <span>“</span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Gods</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span>, I hate the night shift.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>Qrow pulled his flask out now and tapped it against the other man’s thermos like a toast before he drank, and the two men shared a wry smile. They </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>got back to</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span> their patrol.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>Cadmium Siniy wasn’t what you’d call a complicated man. In two hours walking up and down a walkway on a wall together Qrow had gotten more or less his entire life story out of him: his family worked the covered farmland up in the Old Mantle district of Atlas; he’d grown up idolizing the Huntsmen of the military as seen in the news broadcasts and the </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>oh-so-shiny</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span> recruitment ads; he was big and strong and had a combat-useful semblance, so his place in life had seemed pretty obvious to him. He was not, </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>as far as Qrow could tell</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>, someone who could have gone over to Salem. He’d break before he bent, and he wouldn’t be able to hide it, if he’d broken.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>He was loyal to Ironwood, though; Ironwood specifically, not the Council and the chain of command </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>and all that</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>. If whatever the general was keeping from Ozpin </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span> dangerous… Cadmium wouldn’t know any details, but he’d follow orders. He might be a threat, in the future.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>Cadmium </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>stumbled on some unevenness in the walkway</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span> and he pitched sideways towards the guardrail – and just in time Qrow spotted the rust at the base of the railings and tackled the other man from behind. They crashed down onto the walkway in a heap.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>The guardrail, dislodged by the impact of their landing, broke free and toppled down the thirty feet into the tundra below.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>Cadmium watched it go and whistled in relief. “Nice save!” he said, hauling himself and Qrow back to their feet.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span><span>Yeah,” said Qrow bleakly, “that’s what I do.” Nothing had appeared on the horizon in the few seconds they’d taken their eyes off it. He focused his attention on the sky and did </span></span><em><span>not</span></em><span><span> apologize for what had just happened. Cadmium was a decent enough guy, but – you didn’t reveal an asset </span></span><em><span>or</span></em><span><span> a liability in hostile territory if you could help it, and his semblance had always been more liability than asset.</span></span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>Nothing in the sky in their sector either. But Qrow thought he could feel his aura prickling across his back, like a warning of something standing behind him. He turned, cautiously, one hand to Harbinger’s hilt –</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>Away to the west across the city, the lights flared red.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span><span>Incoming!” The radio in Qrow’s ear crackled to life. The Specialist on the other end had a polished Atlesian upper-crust accent: Qrow despised him from the first syllable. “Looks like a mixed pack: Ursai, Sabyrs, some Nevermores up above. I want air support in sector 12! Teams 4 through 7, converge on me! Everyone else: hold position, watch the skies. And don’t forget what General Ironwood said.”</span></span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>To remember that older Grimm were intelligent, the briefing Clover had passed on to them had said (because Qrow hadn’t seen Ironwood yet; that briefing had been senior Specialists and team leaders only. Ironwood hadn’t been seen in public much lately, apparently. Qrow had heard muttering about it from some of the other Huntsmen, and something uneasy had coiled in his gut when he’d heard them). That the Grimm were capable of staging an attack on one side of the city as a feint to lure defenders off the walls on the </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>other</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span> side. The best warning Ironwood could give them, when he couldn’t say </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>they have a master and it looks like she’s got it in for us.</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span> Qrow turned back around and drew Harbinger, braced himself behind the broken segment of railing. It would be just his luck if the real attack was coming </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span>.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>Beside him, Cadmium unlimbered his greataxe. “Have you seen this before?” he asked.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span><span>I’ve seen most things before.” The damn aurora kept catching his eye when he was trying to look for movement in the clouds. No Grimm up there in this direction, not yet at any rate.</span></span></p>
<p class="western">“<span><span>Mixed packs.” Qrow heard the rustle of the earflaps on Cadmium’s black fur hat as he shook his head. “It’s just unnatural. This never used to happen to us.”</span></span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>Qrow laughed humorlessly. “Nothing about the Grimm is </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>natural</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span>.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>The beam turrets kicked in with a low </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>thrumm</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span> and a flare of light out of the corner of his eye. The airfleet was engaging the Nevermores, and the Huntsmen and soldiers firing down from the walls at the landbound Grimm. The walls were holding. There was still no sign of a second attack.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>Maybe it wasn’t coming?</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <em>
    <span>Well, </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <b>there’s</b>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span> one positive I can think of: if General Jimmy had sold out to Salem, all he’d have had to do is hold back on the warnings and let her send in the hordes from all sides and we’d all be dead. And instead we’re here, jumping at shadows.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>That was when the sirens went off in Sector 17.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>Something had gotten into the city. A breach in the walls? But no, that braying idiot on the other end of his earpiece was demanding information, and </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>shouting for </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>backup in the city, this was something else –</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>Qrow yanked out his earpiece. “You stay here,” he snapped, jabbing a finger at Cadmium, “</span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>keep watching </span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span>out there.” He waved a hand overhead at the huddle of footsoldiers in their stupid helmets stationed a few hundred feet away, snapped his fingers for their attention. “Hey, </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>you lot! </span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span>I’m going after whatever’s going on down there. You think you can handle holding the wall without me?”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>He didn’t wait for their response, just half-jumped half-slid down the ladder and sprinted into the city.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>Clover knew exactly how much luck was worth. Some days, it wasn’t much.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>They’d </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>known</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span> Grimm had gotten into the sewers underneath Mantle. The tunnels could never be perfectly secure; sometimes it happened, even under normal circumstances. A pack of half a dozen Centinels had burrowed up from there into a shopping district just last week, but they’d been handily dispatched by Alban and his team of Operatives, the only casualties some broken window glass and ruined stock. And in the aftermath, all the analysis had said that nothing else down there right now was capable of </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>breaking</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span> through to the surface – because anything that could would have joined in the fight. That was the solid logic of the Atlesian intelligence algorithms, and Clover couldn’t have asked for better. The mission to clear out the tunnels had been rated lower-priority, and he’d been making plans for it for him and his team to carry out next week.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>Now, drawn by the fear and panic of the citizens of Mantle at yet another attack on the walls, a massive King Taijitu had battered its way through the city’s foundations to emerge in two different places. And everything else down there that </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>couldn’t burrow</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span> was charging out of the resulting breaches.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>Alban had called </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>up to Atlas </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>for backup. And backup meant the Ace-Ops.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="western">Clover leaped aside as the snake Grimm’s black head lunged for him, and knew from the electric crackle of Harriet’s semblance that she had taken the opening to punch it in its overextended neck. There was an Ursa in front of him now, swinging at him; its swipe hit Kingfisher’s rod and spun him round. He kicked back at it, sending it into Harriet’s fists, even as he flicked his wrist to send Kingfisher’s hook flying out with the momentum of his turn to slice through the Sabyr hurling itself at Marrow. Fetch came spinning back to Marrow’s hand an instant later. Clover nodded to him and they turned together, Clover tangling the Grimm up with his fishing line to drag them into his teammate’s rifle fire.</p>
<p class="western">That left Harriet to distract the King Taijitu – at any rate, the black head of it; the white head had broken through the ground on the next street over, where Clover knew Elm and Vine had it pinned down. Priority one was to keep the beast from surfacing entirely, at least until the apartment buildings above the rest of it had been evacuated.</p>
<p class="western">Unfortunately, the rest of the Grimm were making that evacuation… difficult.</p>
<p class="western">“Stay!” shouted Marrow, throwing out a desperate hand at the trio of Creeps that had slipped past all three of them to charge the troopers escorting the line of terrified civilians down the street. Clover called to Harriet, dropping back to take her place baiting the Taijitu as she stepped up to take down the frozen Creeps, and casting with Kingfisher he impaled a Sabyr through the mouth as it reared up out of the hole in the road.</p>
<p class="western">Then he had to duck and roll under the King Taijitu’s fanged mouth, and was swatted away by the claws of another Sabyr, and all his luck was doing was keeping them alive.</p>
<p class="western">“What’s the situation on the walls?” he yelled over the siren’s howling, and drove Kingfisher through an Ursa’s belly as a spear before kipping up and bracing with both hands on the rod to push back against the Taijitu’s fanged bite. The next batch of evacuees were huddled in the doorway of their building, behind the Taijitu’s head, hesitating to step outside. <em>Harriet can clear a path for them. </em><span>He nodded to her, gestured in their direction: that was all the instruction she needed, and she shouted for the troopers to fall in behind her and swept through the Grimm nearby.</span></p>
<p class="western">“Holding position!” Alban reported over his earpiece, and Clover heard the other team leader grunt as he loosed an arrow. “We’ve blown another cannon, though, and they’re ramming the western gate. I can’t offer you reinforcements.”</p>
<p class="western">“That’s fine, we don’t need them.” <em>Though they would have been convenient</em><span>, he admitted to himself</span><em>.</em> He hooked a chunk of rubble from the foundations, sent it spinning down the road to bowl a few Grimm back. He’d been hoping it would seal up part of the breach when it came to rest, but it hit the Taijitu’s underbelly with a dull <em>thunk</em><span> instead. “Hold the gate, Alban.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Sir, yes, sir,” said Alban lightly. “Watch out for Nevermores, though nothing’s broken through the airfleet’s defenses </span><em>yet</em><span>.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Acknowledged. Over and out. Marrow!”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Fetch zipped past the Taijitu’s head, took the arm off an Ursa swinging at the next family out the door, and sliced a Sabyr in two on the rebound. Harriet threw herself in the way of a hit aimed for a trooper and went spinning away into a wall, but she popped back up again and flared her semblance to jump right back into the fight. The trooper called out his thanks and opened fire on the Sabyr leaping for her, wearing it down so Fast Knuckles could finish it off.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <em>Elm and Vine can hold the other head. Marrow and Harriet and I can distract this one. The </em>
  <em>attack</em>
  <em> on the walls is under control. Ten more minutes until we’ve got the civilians out of here, and then this stops being a holding action. </em>
  <span>Once they didn’t have to worry about collateral damage, a few shots from Timber ought to blow the King Taijitu apart. Then all that was left would be the mopping-up.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>In the meantime, though: the holding action. Ten minutes could be a long time in a fight. He jumped and twisted away from another strike by the snake-like Grimm, redirected himself to come down on a Creep’s skull heels-first, and flicked his thumb across his badge.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p class="western">
  <span>Qrow's first sign he was getting close to the threat was the horde of fleeing civilians – or maybe </span>
  <em>retreating</em>
  <span> civilians was more like it: they were flanked by soldiers hustling them along, and most of them looked surprisingly non-panicky for people who’d just been chased out of their houses by an attack siren. Scared, of course, but mostly they just looked miserably resigned. He’d been half expecting stampeding mobs. The troopers cleared the way for him and waved him past, shouting directions he didn’t need. He was running towards the thing everyone else was heading </span>
  <em>away</em>
  <span> from, it was as simple as that.</span>
</p>
<p class="western"><span>He’d never seen a Solitas-adapted King Taijitu before. It was – bigger. </span><em>Obviously</em><span>, he thought sourly.</span><em> All the monsters in Solitas are bigger, because Salem never does anything by halves.</em> <span>The head reached nearly as high as the apartment complexes on either side, and some of its length must still have been underground.</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>He shook the thought off, assessed the situation in snapshots as he hurried forward. King Taijitu – </span>
  <em>half</em>
  <span> a King Taijitu, and he was just going to hope the Solitas ones didn’t have a third head waiting to pop up somewhere else as well, but he could hear rocketry and yelling a street away so he was going to start with the head in front of him. Swarm of lesser Grimm, mostly Creeps and Sabyrs, only </span>
  <span>registering as</span>
  <span> ‘lesser’ in comparison to the massive ice-encrusted snake-thing. Civilians in hastily-thrown-on coats carrying their kids and sometimes a bag or two, being led out of the apartment buildings on his left; footsoldiers, doing the leading, and taking out a few Grimm with massed fire from those rifles they carried. Atlas military Specialists (bladed-boomerang-and-rifle; speed semblance and powered gauntlets), dealing reasonably well with the lesser Grimm, not really having any impact on the ice-encrusted hide of the King Taijitu.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Clover Ebi, swinging across from one side of the street to the other on a grappling line that he then disengaged and flipped over to spear through the bone-mask of a Sabyr about to make a break for the exodus of civilians.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Was that a </span>
  <em>fishing rod?</em>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Qrow closed into range of the fight just in time to open fire on the </span>
  <em>next</em>
  <span> Sabyr to go for the civilians, and then to swing Harbinger into the Ursa behind it as a scythe. There were a handful of unattached kids in the crowd, who’d fallen behind. The Grimm were going to keep coming for them until those soldiers got them out. And three Specialists – no matter </span>
  <em>what</em>
  <span> impressive things Clover could apparently do with a fisherman’s pole – weren’t really cutting it right now.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>He planted his feet in front of the kids, whirled Harbinger around in his hands, and beckoned the Grimm on mockingly.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p class="western">
  <span>Four more apartments to clear, in the direction the King Taijitu’s head was facing, and five more from the building down the </span>
  <span>road</span>
  <span> behind it. Given time, Clover would have liked to evacuate the whole row of apartment complexes, all the way down the street, but this would have to be good enough. At least the people at the ends of the road seemed to be holding up alright: the Grimm loose in the street weren’t going for them.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <em>Of course they’re not worried. The General’s Ace Operatives are here to protect them. In our oh-so-photogenic uniforms</em>
  <span>, he added wryly to himself. (Public relations was an important part of keeping the people safe, of course.)</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>And Qrow was here, too. Clover would have said that Alban had made the right call in sending him here, if he’d thought the </span>
  <span>current</span>
  <span> commander of the wall-defense had had anything to do with it.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>He’d known Qrow must be skilled. It was a different thing entirely, seeing him in action.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Kingfisher’s hook glanced off the Taijitu’s scales, swung around and went back in for the rebound, keeping the beast snapping at Clover rather than </span>
  <span>dragging itself</span>
  <span> further out of the breach. Harriet punched out an Ursa; Marrow gunned down a row of Creeps. Qrow kicked a Sabyr in the jaw and swept its head off in the next motion, before turning to </span>
  <em>throw his sword </em>
  <span>– at the Creep Clover had </span>
  <em>only just noticed</em>
  <span> coming up behind him.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Thanks!” he shouted, casting Kingfisher’s line to yank an Ursa out of Qrow’s path by its upraised paw.</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Watch your back!” Qrow called back, reclaiming his weapon and falling in beside Clover.</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <em>Is his semblance his reflexes? Some sort of battlefield awareness?</em>
  <span> That wasn’t relevant, of course, except when it came to knowing how best to deploy him…</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>They were holding. Three families left.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Harriet?” Clover called, and she unleashed a series of punches into the Taijitu’s throat, causing it to rear back away from the buildings; “Marrow!” he shouted, and Marrow ducked away from a blow and hurled Fetch to deflect a falling chunk of masonry. The rush of lesser Grimm out of the breach was slowing to a few handfuls here and there. He and Qrow swept through them, moving together, Qrow at his right hand. </span><em>Spear this one, block the next, swing it sideways into Qrow’s strike… those two over there I can bind together, set them up for him… </em><span>It felt like they fit together.</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Across the street, Marrow was bowled over by a pair of Sabyrs and the King Taijitu lunged – “Qrow!”</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>I’m not your damn lackey!” Qrow yelled over his shoulder, though he was already running for the fallen Operative. Clover reeled back in surprise that he shouldn’t have felt. His foot came down wrong on a shattered piece of rubble; he tripped, </span><span>crashed down sprawling onto the ground</span><span> with an undignified yelp, </span><span>all the wind knocked out of him</span><span>.</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>The razor-sharp feathers of a Nevermore lanced into the tarmac where he had been standing an instant before.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <em>That was a close one.</em>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Nevermore,” he called into his radio, </span><span>drawing on his aura to </span><span>forc</span><span>e</span><span> his lungs to work normally, “within city limits – air support –” But they were already there, engaging the Grimm overhead, and so was Harriet, who smirked at him as she helped him up. He was always glad to have backup at hand.</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Down the street, the last family to be evacuated were being escorted out. Marrow’s aura was crackling, but his part in this was almost over now; he’d held up well. Clover activated his earpiece. “Elm, Vine? We’re almost clear here; how’s it going on your end?”</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Last batch, just on their way out!” Elm reported. He heard her grunt with effort. “We got this!”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Elm?” said Vine abruptly. He sounded mildly concerned. From Vine, that was significant. Clover flicked a glance to Harriet: </span><em>brace for whatever comes up</em><span>. “The surface of the road is fragmenting. Be carefu – aaaaaaagh!”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Clover heard the shattering of masonry. And then the Grimm’s hissing shriek.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>The second head of the King Taijitu crashed through the apartment block and lunged for Clover. Its fangs snapped shut, just glancing off his foot as he swung away using Kingfisher as a grappling line.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Clover</span>
  <span> looked around wildly for his people. Vine had been thrown clear when the Grimm smashed through the building and was lying half-conscious on the other side of the street, but it didn’t look worse than aura exhaustion. Harriet was braced against a chunk of the fallen building, her aura flickering around her, straining with Fast Knuckles to keep it from coming down on the little old lady who’d been last out of the building; Marrow was </span>
  <span>stepping forward to help the woman</span>
  <span> away from the combat zone to join the rest of her family, </span>
  <span>offering his arm, his rifle in his off-hand</span>
  <span>. Elm… was pulling herself out of the rubble, bruised and battered, bleeding from a cut over her eye. With her aura broken, she wouldn’t be able to anchor herself to fire Timber, but at least she didn’t look badly injured.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Qrow had slid under the Taijitu’s strike and was rolling to his feet now, dusting himself off and making his own assessment of the others’ condition. He met Clover’s eyes, jerked his head at the gaping double maws of the rearing snake-monster, and brought his weapon up in greatsword shape. “You think we can take it together?”</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Clover let himself drop to stand beside him, grinning, and spun his horseshoe around his finger. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p class="western">The last head of the Grimm dissolved under his feet, with that fishing rod spearing through its open mouth and Harbinger in its remaining eye, and Qrow dropped to the ground, sinking his greatsword through the tarmac to anchor himself as he landed. Beside him, Clover rolled to his feet, reeling his weapon in, and Qrow moved to cover his back as he swung Harbinger into a firing position – but nothing else was moving in the pit.</p>
<p class="western">
  <em>It’s over.</em>
  <span> He breathed out a sigh.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Clover turned to him, breathing just as hard as Qrow himself was, and grinning as fiercely too. “That was incredible!” he said.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Qrow laughed. “Yeah, you’re pretty good for an Atlesian soldier-boy.” That was a real understatement. Fighting alongside him had felt </span>
  <em>incredible</em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Clover opened his mouth to say something else, then looked at the debris around him and must have changed his mind. He turned away and reached up to tap that bug in his ear. “Control, this is Clover. Target down, I say again, target down. What’s the status of the fight on the walls?”</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>From his expression, whatever his ‘control’ had to say about that either wasn’t a problem, or it </span>
  <span>was</span>
  <span> someone </span>
  <em>else’s</em>
  <span> problem. Qrow took a few steps back, away from the center of the destruction, watching as the other Specialists picked themselves up and checked in with their masters.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Clover still had more to say </span>
  <span>on the radio</span>
  <span>, it turned out. “We’ll need shield projectors deployed here until the breaches can be repaired, and regulars and Huntsmen standing guard. I’ll oversee the first shift. The rest of my team are now off duty.” He aimed that </span>
  <span>bit</span>
  <span> kind of pointedly in his teammates’ direction. “Have a medical team on standby when they get up to Atlas.”</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Oh come </span><em>on</em><span>, </span><span>Clover,</span><span> I’m </span><em>fine</em><span>!” complained the one with the speed semblance.</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Hah! Tell that to the medics, then!” said the woman with the bruiser’s build who’d gotten herself thrown through a collapsing building. Qrow tuned out the rest of their interplay, still watching Clover, who </span><span>was</span><span> look</span><span>ing</span><span> more tired now.</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Apparently, this </span>
  <em>wasn’t</em>
  <span> over yet. Not for him.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>I am sorry to report that building number… 317 was destroyed by the fight. Please express my personal apologies to the inhabitants, and make arrangements for temporary housing for them, and can we organize the retrieval of their personal effects from the rubble? We can move the rest of the evacuees back from the shelters now…”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Qrow leaned carefully against a mostly-unbroken stretch of wall and felt his heart sink.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Atlesian soldier or not, Clover was a good man. He wasn’t the threat Qrow was here to find, far from it. No, he was one more person Qrow couldn’t risk sabotaging with his curse.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>He’d have to keep his distance from now on.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*stares at outline* so many fight scenes, why am i doing this to myself<br/>(oh right, because Qrow)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">“… so I rode with him the rest of the way to Vale for his protection. And let’s just say he was <em>real</em> grateful to me afterwards.” Qrow wrapped up his story – the usual sort of slightly-exaggerated boasting you always got when a bunch of bored Huntsmen ended up together – with a leer and a filthy grin, and the assembled group laughed and jeered in the usual half-believing way. Elm Ederne, the brawny brown-skinned Ace-Op who’d gotten dragged through that apartment building by trying to hold down a King Taijitu three nights ago, clapped him on the shoulder with a shout of approval and nearly knocked him flat. From everyone else’s winces of sympathy, that was pretty obviously a hazard of spending time with Elm.</p><p class="western">“I bet I can top <em>that</em> one,” said Aaron Smoke, still laughing. He was a wiry little pale man with a weaselly blond mustache, but Atlas had some stupid fashions in facial hair at the best of times, so maybe this story wasn’t going to be <em>completely</em> made up. There were a lot of people with terrible taste out there in the world. “So Councilwoman Camilla has this great-niece, and I’m talking real hot stuff, legs for days…”</p><p class="western">“You did <em>not</em>,” said Mae Levine, who hadn’t believed Qrow’s story either. The light caught on the white snake’s scales scattered across her olive skin as she shook her head, and on the livid scar on her cheek. That one looked like it was about a month old; must have been a pretty bad hit, to leave that kind of mark.</p><p class="western">Qrow waved her to silence. “No, I wanna hear this. Go on, Aaron, what about her legs?”</p><p class="western">Insomnia was pretty common for Huntsmen, and Qrow hadn’t been surprised not to be the only one wandering the corridors of the base in the small hours of the morning. He <em> had </em> been kind of surprised it turned out the Specialists tended to accumulate in the training room in the middle of the night instead of one of the rec rooms, even when they weren’t sparring, but traditions could be funny things. So the four of them were standing around in a far corner of the massive room – or in Mae’s case, lounging on a chair made of hard-light blocks she’d cajoled the terrain projector into making for her somehow – spinning stories, while Aaron’s partner Kelvin Ignis was in the middle of the room sparring hand-to-hand with another Huntsman whose name Qrow hadn’t caught yet. They’d wrecked three projected walls already throwing each other through them. Qrow was glad to be out of their way.</p><p class="western">Qrow had stood perimeter defense a couple more times over the last few nights, but they hadn’t had any more attacks so far. Just long stretches of tension and boredom, and last night a flight of Teryxes in the distance that had been chased off by the first few shots of the beam turrets and the airfleet’s maneuvering. Tomorrow he’d gotten himself assigned to guard a convoy from one of the mines instead. If lone Huntsmen were getting picked off by Grimm, or anything else, those sorts of missions were probably where.</p><p class="western">He was getting to know the Specialists, too, and getting a feel for how Atlas made their military work. You had your footsoldiers and the officer Huntsmen and all the airmen and captains and so on in the fleet, all part of the same iron chain of command… and then you had the Special Operatives, a cut above everyone else except their General, or at least a step to the side of them. The lowest, most wet-behind-the-ears Specialist to have just been recruited out of the Academy outranked a captain, or even higher, in the right circumstances. There were jokes about that, among the Specialists, and sure they were mostly at the expense of the idiot junior Operative, but they took it as an obvious fact that they could give orders to everyone else in the military. It didn’t seem like the Atlesian <em>system</em> made it real clear what the <em>right circumstances</em> were, either.</p><p class="western">And most of the Specialists weren’t so obviously decent as Cadmium – or Clover.</p><p class="western">“… but then her grandmother walked in on us with her private security behind her, and that was the end of <em>that,</em>” Aaron concluded, with a snap of his fingers. That part of the story might even have been true.</p><p class="western">“Bullshit,” was Mae’s verdict.</p><p class="western">“<em>Entertaining</em> bullshit,” Qrow amended it.</p><p class="western">“Sorry, Aaron,” said Elm, grinning, “gotta admit, they’ve got a point.”</p><p class="western">Aaron produced a dramatic pout. “You’re all terrible people who wouldn’t recognize the truth when it – when it <em> bit </em> you and I don’t know why I’m spending any time with you. Kick his ass, Kelvin!” he added over his shoulder to his partner, to drown out the rest of their laughter.</p><p class="western">The burly redhead cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders, and advanced on his smaller opponent, who’d gotten backed into a corner made out of towers of translucent blocks. The guy wasn’t trapped, though; Qrow could tell he was bracing to kick off from the wall behind him and launch himself past Kelvin, who’d be too slow to stop him –</p><p class="western">“<em> Break </em>,” Kelvin snarled.</p><p class="western">The other Huntsman’s eyes just had time to widen.</p><p class="western">A whirl of hissing red-orange energy annihilated a chunk out of both walls. The rest, reduced to rubble, crashed down on top of him before he could begin to dodge. He groaned as his aura fizzled out. Elm, watching, made a sympathetic noise.</p><p class="western">“That’s some semblance,” Qrow muttered.</p><p class="western">Aaron beamed, all offense forgotten, preening as though his partner’s victories were his own. “You should see what it can do to Grimm.”</p><p class="western">“Right,” said Mae, “now can we <em> please </em> have a story that’s not about an escort mission? Yes, alright, Aaron, yours was a <em> bodyguard </em> mission, if you insist; somehow I didn’t see much difference. Elm, have the Ace-Ops done anything heroic that <em> hasn’t </em> made it to national broadcast news yet?”</p><p class="western">Elm laughed. “Funny you should say that! You see, yesterday –”</p><p class="western">“All I’m saying,” said a polished upper-crust voice from the doorway, cutting through the beginning of Elm’s story, “is that it’s a waste of valuable resources to have the both of us on the wall at the same time.”</p><p class="western"><em> Ugh </em>. Alban Arguros. The guy who’d been in charge of the Mantle perimeter defense that first night Qrow had been there, who’d ended up uselessly demanding for someone else to come clean up the mess when that breach had happened in the middle of the city instead. There was an ornate spear on his back, his uniform jacket was cut like a rich Atlesian’s tailcoat, and he held himself like he was looking down on everyone around him.</p><p class="western">And walking into the room behind him was – Clover.</p><p class="western">Clover walking in step with the upper-class bastard, standing by his side with that charming smile of his coming so easily to his face, and it was <em> really </em> stupid to resent that they’d just been working together when from the sound of it they’d been standing in the cold constantly on guard watching the skies for hours – hell, probably they’d been on different sides of the city – but they seemed so damn in tune with each other right then. It was the way they moved.</p><p class="western">“I don’t disagree, Alban,” Clover was saying in reply to him, “but we’ll have to make stranger deployment decisions than putting two team leaders in the same place before long, if these attacks keep up.” He turned all the sincerity those green eyes were capable of on the pompous twit. Arguros, wasn’t that one of those ancient <em> houses </em> that’d lorded it over Atlas since before the kingdom was even called that? “We both volunteered, and that’s what really matters.”</p><p class="western">“Oh, certainly. I wouldn’t deny <em> that </em>.”</p><p class="western">They parted ways like they’d arranged it beforehand, Arguros going across to the shattered terrain blocks to congratulate Kelvin – right, yeah, him and Aaron were the guy’s teammates, weren’t they, and Qrow had no idea how Aaron put up with taking orders from the prick all the time – and haul the defeated Huntsman out of the hard-light debris, while Clover made his way to the corner the rest of them were lurking in. <em> Might have been a mistake to hang around with Elm. </em></p><p class="western">Qrow pulled at his flask. Deliberately, this time, to watch Clover recoil from it.</p><hr/><p class="western">“Hey boss,” Elm greeted him as soon as he got halfway across the training room, with her usual loud enthusiasm, “good to see you!”</p><p class="western">Clover’s smile came naturally to his lips. Elm looked to have recovered fully from the collapse of the building, and her cheerful nature was always a pleasure; and she was with Qrow, as well as Mae and Aaron, who were good people, if irreverent.</p><p class="western">“It’s good to see you too,” he said once he’d closed the distance somewhat, “all of you.”</p><p class="western">“Yeah, seeing <em> this </em> would brighten anyone’s day,” said Aaron, and Qrow and Mae rolled their eyes at him almost in unison. Clover should have guessed those two would get along; it was good to see Qrow had found friends here.</p><p class="western">“How are you?” he asked Elm. “Resting up alright?”</p><p class="western">“Course I am! You worry too much, Clover, you didn’t have to keep me off perimeter patrol tonight.”</p><p class="western">“You’d only have gotten bored, as it turns out,” he told her with a rueful smile. “Qrow, are you planning on sparring tonight?” Clover would have liked to see him fight, in some calmer setting than a battlefield, where Clover could just stand back and watch the grace of all his motions…</p><p class="western">“Not tonight,” Qrow said flatly, his shoulders hunched.</p><p class="western">Perhaps that was for the best. He did look tired. Not to mention halfway to drunk, and Clover <em> wanted </em> to object to that but he knew he didn’t have grounds to. There were so few restrictions placed on seconded Huntsmen for good reason, and that reason was that they couldn’t afford to alienate outsider Huntsmen willing to work with Atlas in times of crisis. Not when there were so few of them to be found. Huntsmen tended to be forceful personalities, after all, and the Atlas Academy system attracted a lot of unwarranted opinions. Someone like Qrow, who’d step up to volunteer despite all that when he could be anywhere else in Remnant right now, was a rare find.</p><p class="western">Qrow’s drinking wasn’t <em> healthy </em>, but – he wasn’t putting anyone but himself at risk, and he wasn’t one of Clover’s subordinates that he had a responsibility for, and Clover knew where the limitations of professional conduct lay.</p><p class="western">“We’re telling war stories,” said Aaron, cutting through Clover’s thoughts, “want to join, oh Senior Specialist?”</p><p class="western">“You mean you were gossiping,” returned Clover. His smile was taking a little more focus to maintain at this point.</p><p class="western">“No, he means they were boasting,” said Mae. “We were only just getting to the gossip.” And from the pointed look she gave Elm, it had been going to be about Clover.</p><p class="western">Well, it wasn’t as though he’d <em> want </em> to be placed up on a pedestal where no one would dream of having fun at his expense. And it had been obvious from the beginning that Qrow wasn’t going to be impressed by Clover’s rank.</p><p class="western">“Well, I promised Alban a match,” Clover said, cheerily, “so I won’t be joining you in that. Enjoy!”</p><p class="western">“Good luck,” said Mae sardonically, and Aaron snickered behind his hand. That was an old, tired joke that didn’t even sting any more, and Clover just chuckled and shook his head over it. Qrow didn’t laugh.</p><p class="western">Chrys, who’d had a somewhat unpleasant encounter with Kelvin’s semblance from the look of the training room, had been ushered out to medical while Clover wasn’t looking, and Alban had reset the room to one of the more usual training programs: plenty of wide-open spaces, a few short walls or towers to be used for cover. Clover’s opponent was waiting for him in the center of the room, his weapon, Orion’s Claim, leveled in both hands as a spear. Clover unhooked Kingfisher from his belt, and at a playful notion extended its rod and took up a spear-fighting stance himself, the mirror of Alban’s.</p><p class="western">They began slowly, taking half-steps back and forward like fencers, making feints that didn’t go anywhere. They knew each other well. This was going to be fun, and a little harmless fun was just what Clover needed right now.</p><p class="western">Clover lunged first.</p><p class="western">The shaft of Alban’s spear slapped Kingfisher aside: Clover used that movement against him, pivoting with his weapon swinging so the handle end impacted against Alban’s temple. He hadn’t done it fast enough, though. Alban saw it coming in time, his form blurred and shivered, and the strike slid through him harmlessly.</p><p class="western">“First strike to me!” he said anyway, brightly.</p><p class="western">Alban laughed, backing off a step and adjusting his grip. “If you insist. We both know it’s only the last strike that matters.” He took a step to Clover’s right, and Clover matched him so they began to circle each other.</p><p class="western">“Oh come on, get to the good parts!” Elm shouted from across the room.</p><p class="western">“You can’t rush excellence!” Clover called back. Alban took that moment to strike, but Clover jumped out of the way.</p><p class="western">“How about we get <em> back </em> to that conversation we were having?” said his opponent, eyes narrowed in concentration. He lunged, Clover parried. Alban’s riposte grazed the hollow of Clover’s throat as he leaned back to avoid it. <em> Second strike to Alban, more or less </em>, he reflected, but his opponent had been right that this wasn’t the sort of match where you tallied the individual hits.</p><p class="western">“About deployment decisions?” Clover frowned. “I thought we’d resolved that.”</p><p class="western">“Only halfway, as a matter of fact.” Alban feinted high; Clover lunged low, and Alban stepped out of the way and went back to circling. “It’s being deployed without our <em> teams </em> that I object to,” he persisted. “What was Ironwood thinking when he created the Ace-Ops, if your team can just be split apart at a… whim of scheduling?”</p><p class="western">“My people needed the downtime, and so did yours.” That was obvious, so it wasn’t really what this was about. For all Alban had left most of his upbringing behind and chosen to dedicate himself to serving Atlas, he’d never quite managed to shake the belief that he was nothing if he wasn’t on top. “Alban, it doesn’t <em> lessen </em> you, to be technically under my command for a while. I don’t object to deferring to Marina, now do I?” Feint high this time, knock the point of his spear away… a quick clatter of blows and Clover’s counterstrike slid through Alban’s shoulder without resistance. Using his semblance would wear him down, though; Clover pressed his attack, striking from the left.</p><p class="western">“<em> Do you </em> defer to Marina?” Alban retorted, as Clover ducked under his riposte.</p><p class="western">“Of course! In the field. When we disagree. I’ll grant that isn’t <em> often </em>, but –” Clover aimed a blow at Alban’s ribs; Orion’s Claim trapped Kingfisher’s rod underneath it, forcing it downward, leaving Clover open for Alban’s return strike… and Clover flicked his wrist to hook his line round his opponent’s leg instead and yank him off balance. “– but it does happen.”</p><p class="western">Alban staggered, caught off guard, his spear flailing wildly to the side, and Clover yanked him forwards and closed the distance for a punch to the jaw which for once connected solidly. Alban snarled in frustration at him, finding the strength of focus to blur out of the snare around his leg though that also sent him halfway through the floor before he got control over his use of his semblance, and Orion’s Claim strung itself with a whine to become a longbow.</p><p class="western">The Dust inlays along its length lit up.</p><p class="western"><em> Here we go, </em> thought Clover, reeling Kingfisher back in.</p><hr/><p class="western">“Oh, here we go,” said Aaron, with a smile full of schadenfreude, “<em> now </em> they’re getting into it.”</p><p class="western">Prince Pedigree’s weapon had reconfigured itself into a bow, and it turned out he wasn’t carrying any arrows because he didn’t need them. Not with daddy’s money supplying him with all that Dust built into it.</p><p class="western">An arrow-shaped bolt of ice Dust, aimed at Clover’s torso, frosted over his leg instead as he swung out of the way on a grappling line, his arms flexing. Hadn’t slowed him down any. Qrow wasn’t impressed; Aaron and Kelvin, though, were grinning and nudging each other.</p><p class="western">“Told you he couldn’t dodge them all,” Aaron gloated. “First shot, too, your boss is slipping. C’mon Elm, pay up.” Kelvin grunted in agreement.</p><p class="western">Elm handed the Lien over with good grace, shrugging. “You win some, you lose some.”</p><p class="western">Qrow was keeping half an eye on the fight. Clover had dodged the next three bolts, jumping between projected blocks, and flipped himself into a somersault that let a fire Dust arrow melt the ice coating off his leg without even singeing him. He was pretty sure all their confidence in Arguros was misplaced.</p><p class="western">Elm didn’t seem bothered by conceding her team leader’s defeat. “How about <em> we </em> have a match after they’re done,” she offered, grinning, “give me a chance to win it back from you?” She shook Aaron’s hand vigorously; he yelped, staggered, and toppled into his partner.</p><p class="western">“I don’t <em> think </em> she does it on purpose,” said Mae, aside to Qrow, as Aaron floundered his way out of having to accept Elm’s challenge.</p><p class="western">“Huh?”</p><p class="western">“You were wondering if Elm was shaking him like that to get revenge,” she said, sprawling lower in her chair, bonelessly as the snake she took her Faunus trait from, “weren’t you. I know <em> I </em>wonder it.”</p><p class="western">It had been one of several things he’d been thinking about. Qrow marked Mae down in his mind. <em> She thinks like me: that means she’s a sneaky bastard who shouldn’t be trusted. </em></p><p class="western">“Nah, I was wondering whether those two’re fucking,” he said, jerking his chin at Aaron and Kelvin. Aaron still hadn’t straightened up from where he’d fallen into his taller partner, and was leaning on his chest. Mae snorted.</p><p class="western">“Nah,” said Kelvin, not dislodging his partner at all.</p><p class="western">“Hah! Not for lack of trying,” added Elm.</p><p class="western">“Kelvin is tragically and incomprehensibly straight,” Aaron explained, “but I forgive him for it.”</p><p class="western">“Uh huh,” said Mae, “what other reason would anyone have to turn <em> you </em> down.”</p><p class="western">“Exactly!” said Aaron, with a gesture at his stupid mustache.</p><p class="western">The conversation fell apart into mockery. Qrow gave as good as he got, and drank, and watched everyone, including Alban and Clover, out of the corner of his eye. He wasn’t in much danger of making friends, here among the <em> pride </em> of Atlas’ military, but they’d think of him as friendly enough.</p><hr/><p class="western">The laughter swelled at the back of the room, and Clover smiled to hear it.</p><p class="western">He had Alban on the run now: his opponent’s advantage was at range, so he had to keep backing away as Clover tried to close the distance. He dodged to the right around the next Dust bolt, snapped out Kingfisher’s line; it clipped Alban’s side, but the real point had been that it made Alban step to <em> his </em> right. A few more steps, and… Clover threw himself into a roll to duck under the next shot, came up leading with Kingfisher as a spear, and Alban stepped back into a hard-light wall.</p><p class="western">Alban gritted his teeth and phased through it. Clover already had his weapon’s hook flying for the top of the wall.</p><p class="western">He reeled himself up to stand on top of the wall – for a moment he caught Qrow’s eye, up there, before the other Huntsman looked away – and launched himself from that height towards Alban.</p><p class="western">Three arrows hissed into existence as Alban released the string of his bow. Still in midair, Clover couldn’t dodge them all. <em> Gravity, fire, lightning. I can’t afford to be pinned down. </em> He twisted sideways out of the path of the fire arrow and half-fell through the lightning, biting back his cry of pain; he rolled to his feet with Kingfisher’s hook lashing out –</p><p class="western">And Alban’s bowstring snapped.</p><p class="western">Clover went cold all over. His semblance wasn’t usually so – direct.</p><p class="western">He went through the rest of the fight on autopilot. He won, of course.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>You have now met all the major OCs. At least one of them is Up To No Good. Place your bets now!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">“Branwen,” said an accusing voice over Qrow’s earpiece. He fought the urge to yank it out immediately in self-defense.</p>
<p class="western">“You,” he answered, as insolently as possible. Marina Glass, the wind-up knight, with the disgusted looks and the stupid helmet. She wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near here; he leaned out the window of the truck he was riding shotgun in, scanning the tundra for some threat to the convoy behind him he’d somehow missed that would send Ironwood’s favorite minion out here to sneer at him. Nothing. No Grimm, anyway. There were three dropships in the sky heading the opposite direction: so apparently Marina had turned out in force.</p>
<p class="western">There was some other disaster going on somewhere else, then. Should he – no, surely he wouldn’t be needed there, there were three airships on the way to whatever it was and Glass had to be good at <em>something</em><span> besides snippy comments or Clover wouldn’t give her the time of day. And he had his own mission to deal with.</span></p>
<p class="western">“Seconded or not, Branwen, I am still your superior officer –”</p>
<p class="western">“Nothing to report, <em>sir</em><span>,” Qrow cut her off. What, it was efficient, she liked efficiency. “One convoy’s worth of raw Dust, on its way back to the refineries. What’s </span><em>your</em><span> situation?”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>I’m on search and destroy. Mine #6 reports a pair of Manticores were driven off by their defenses after your convoy left, but there’s likely to be a full pack moving into the area.” A disdain-filled pause. “The Specialists are, at present, unfortunately short-handed.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>And I’m in the area, so you’re inviting me along.” Wow, she really </span><em>must</em><span> be desperate, if he was her best option. He waved for the driver to slow down, hesitated with his hand on the door of the truck. “You’re not worried something’s going to hit the convoy as soon as I leave?”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>No.” Clipped and to the point, that. “Besides, if anything </span><em>were</em><span> to happen, the Atlesian Knights could handle it.”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>The lead dropship was circling low, coming in to land. She hadn’t even properly asked yet and she was assuming he was going to say </span>
  <em>yes sir</em>
  <span> and jump when she told him to, like a good little soldier… though he </span>
  <em>was</em>
  <span> going to take the mission, so he didn’t really have a right to protest. Qrow popped the door and jumped out. “On my way.”</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <em>Let’s find out what Marina’s made of.</em>
</p>
<p class="western">The airship took off again the moment he was on board; he swayed in the sudden lurch of the acceleration, but kept his footing. Glass gave him a dirty look anyway. She was wearing the robot helmet, and there was a shortsword at her hip for a left-hand draw. <em>Looks like it’s got a rifle transform mode,</em><span> he noted absently; </span><em>I’ve got versatility </em><em><b>and</b></em><em><span> reach on her, if it comes to a fight.</span></em></p>
<p class="western">The passenger hold was full of robots, the older models instead of the shiny white prototypes he’d seen in the labs, though there was a human pilot up front. Qrow felt uncomfortably outnumbered.</p>
<p class="western">“So,” he drawled, slouching against the side of the hold, “you did say you wanted to see what I could do. Finally making time for it, huh?”</p>
<p class="western">“Are you insinuating,” the glass knight demanded, puffed up in outrage, “that <em>I</em> manipulated mission assignments for my own gain? In order to work with <em>you</em><span>?”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>I don’t know, did you?”</span></p>
<p class="western">The speechless glaring lost some effectiveness when they were in a cramped enough space she had to crane her neck to look up at him properly.</p>
<p class="western">“Right, no, of course not, you wouldn’t,” he continued, with a smile that shaded into a smirk. “I was just thinking about it, seeing as I never got a chance to show off for you. You know, ‘cause I haven’t seen you around the base at all. What’s with that? I must’ve met everyone <em>else</em><span> in the Specialists by now.</span>”</p>
<p class="western">“I have responsibilities,” Marina huffed, “something <em>you</em><span> clearly know nothing about.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Wow, never heard </span><em>that</em><span> one before.” Qrow rolled his eyes. “I see Clover around the halls all the time, you can’t be </span><em>that</em><span> busy. So what is it? You think you’re too good to hang around with the rest of us mooks?”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>I would think you’d know better than to talk about things you don’t understand,” Glass snapped. At this point her temper was </span><em>really</em><span> rising. </span><em>Now we’re talking,</em><span> thought Qrow: this was what he’d been driving at since he started this conversation. “</span><em>Specialist Ebi</em><span>’s responsibilities are merely to the Special Operatives: mission planning, personnel assignments and so forth. I do all that too, and </span><em>I </em><span>am also in charge of </span><em>multiple</em><span> scientific projects for R&amp;D. On the General’s orders!”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Qrow </span>
  <span>recalled</span>
  <span> Dr Sable’s disapproval of Specialists claiming to have a role in the labs, picked his </span>
  <span>sneering</span>
  <span> words to echo it. “But that can’t take that much time, can it? You don’t do the </span>
  <em>real</em>
  <span> science.”</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>I know what’s needed in the field, better than those ivory-tower researchers do! I’m the one who caught the bug in the combat-robot control gestalt before it went into testing! I contributed to the design of the airfleet’s new shield projectors!” She hadn’t raised her voice any louder, but she’d started waving her hands around furiously as she spoke. One of her gestures smacked a Knight in the face; it was powered down and didn’t react to the hit, though, and she didn’t seem to notice it either. “Besides, some of this research is so cutting-edge that my input is as good as anyone’s, because </span><em>no one</em><span> knows what cognitive factors we should be looking for –”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>She froze mid-gesture, reined herself back in. “But that’s classified.”</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>I won’t tell the General you said anything,” Qrow agreed.</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>She eyed him suspiciously; Qrow gave her a lazy, lopsided smile. </span>
  <em>Look at me, what am I going to do with the details of science projects? I wouldn’t know anything about industrial espionage. I’m just some stupid asshole winding you up.</em>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Research with </span>
  <em>cognitive factors</em>
  <span> involved, though. That sounded… dubious. He made a mental note about the robot control thing, too, though more because it sounded like useful knowledge to have if he ever ended up on the establishment’s bad side. Breaking into some labs was moving up his list of priorities, if he could find a good opportunity for it anytime soon.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>I get it,” he said, “you’re an important person with a busy life. I’ll shut up. So what about those Manticores, huh?”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>It wasn’t an apology – the role he was playing with her, she wouldn’t </span>
  <em>believe</em>
  <span> an apology from him – but it was shaped kind of like one, and after a wary pause she accepted it. They did have a mission to get to, after all.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>He’d offered her an opportunity to order him around and lecture him, too, and she certainly accepted </span>
  <em>that</em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p class="western">The Manticores that had attacked the mine had been a lone pair, apparently, but you didn’t normally find them going around in such small numbers. Glass thought they were outliers from a larger pack, something like scouts or an advance guard; probably the whole pack had scattered itself into smaller groupings to cover more territory. That meant there was a level of organization to them that Qrow was uneasy about, but Glass was set on the positives.</p>
<p class="western">“We catch them <em>now</em><span>, while their numbers are limited,” she said, tapping a map on her Scroll with a few reported sightings and a whole lot of computer-predicted possibilities, “and pick them off one group at a time. Whittle down their strength, before they have a chance to unite and pose a real threat. We save the Elder Manticore for last, and since it will lack support at that point it will most likely be intelligent enough to retreat.”</span></p>
<p class="western">Qrow grimaced. “Doesn’t sound like such a good idea, relying on what’s <em>likely</em><span>.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“If it <em>isn’t</em><span> intelligent, it won’t be any more of a threat than the rest of them.”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <em>Not what I meant.</em>
  <span> But the rest of the plan seemed sound, and if the leader of the pack did pick a fight with them he could probably still take it.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>So who’s </span><em>we</em><span>?” he said instead. It had better not be just the two of them and a bunch of robots, though wouldn’t it be just his luck if it was.</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>The two of us, two squads of military Huntsmen, and the Knights you see here, plus air support from the Manta pilots.” Glass regarded him levelly. “I realize you may have low expectations of them, but Atlas military personnel are highly trained and considerably more competent than whatever </span><em>town guards</em><span> you may have worked with before.”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Qrow put up his hands. “I didn’t say anything.” Though he might have made a face. They probably wouldn’t get in his way, at least. He couldn’t get anything done if he had to also be protecting everyone else.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>The first few groups went smoothly enough. The Manticores weren’t where the computers had predicted they were, of course, but they </span>
  <em>were</em>
  <span> in the right general area and in smaller groups than a whole pack, twos and threes and fours far enough apart from each other that combat didn’t end up calling in the rest of the horde. The soldiers were… surprisingly non-terrible for people using mostly standardized weaponry. And Marina was more than competent, though being called </span>
  <em>Branwen</em>
  <span> in that tone was really starting to grate on him. Plenty of robots got broken and some of the soldiers got batted around some, but there weren’t any serious injuries.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>They found the next four Manticores over another featureless stretch of tundra, and Qrow and Glass jumped from their airship first with the surviving robots, a nice shiny target to get the Grimm to swoop down to ground level instead of going for the ships. Qrow grounded the first Manticore with a slash through its wing as it stooped low on him, and hacked off its tail on the backswing; on his left, one of the mirrored planes of force that were Marina’s semblance blinked into existence to reflect a fireball straight back into the face of the Grimm that had spat it at her. Behind them, the uniforms came in to land and opened fire, and the Manticore Qrow had maimed dissolved into a spray of ashes.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Marina was barking a string of commands. That woman took way too much pleasure in ordering people around. On the other hand, she </span>
  <em>had</em>
  <span> just thrown herself sword-first at Manticore number three where it had been bearing down on the soldiers she’d brought. Qrow fired a couple of shots into its back while he dodged number four’s pounce, to make sure it stayed properly dead. This fight seemed to be nearly over, though there would be more to come.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>That was when their luck turned. Because of course it did.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>There was a resounding shriek, and the rest of the pack descended from the direction of the sun. Nine or ten of them, led by one with a wingspan that dwarfed the rest and vicious barbs on its bony mane. Qrow saw one of them dive on a cluster of soldiers – he opened fire, sprinting towards them, but the bullets glanced off its hide – the Huntsmen were knocked down, some clawed open, and one of them vanished into the Manticore’s jaws – Qrow got there too late to do more than carve a slice into the beast’s tail as it took flight.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>A scream of metal overhead, and one of the airships spun out of control, trailing smoke. The Grimm that had ripped its wing off peeled away for another strike at it, and Marina smacked it to the ground with a barrier and a wordless shout before </span>
  <span>driving her sword through its underbelly</span>
  <span>. The airship, though, was already doomed. It hit the tundra head-on with an impact Qrow knew the pilot couldn’t have survived.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“Close formation!” snapped Marina.</p>
<p class="western">Qrow backed in towards her as they took up positions in front of the crashed airship, firing steadily at the Grimm overhead. The soldiers huddled in behind them, the wounded taking shelter in the shadow of the wreckage. One of the Manticores swooped low, its claws raking, the rest of the pack spread out behind it, and Qrow leaped forward to meet it –</p>
<p class="western">He slammed into a wall. So did the Manticore, on the other side. He tasted copper. His half-transparent reflection stared accusingly back at him from the mirrored barrier. <em>What the fuck did you think you were doing here, Qrow? Did you think you’d ever </em><em>measure up</em><em> –</em></p>
<p class="western">“What part of <em>close formation</em><span> did you not understand?” the glass robot demanded, while a box’s worth of mirror-shields finished snapping into place around their position. The Grimm peeled away and circled back, roaring. Fireballs bounced back from the shields.</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Qrow picked himself up, spat blood onto the icy ground. “The part where it applied to </span>
  <em>me</em>
  <span>? Why the hell did you bother grabbing me out of the convoy if you’re not going to let me do my job?”</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“Is it too much to ask for a <em>modicum</em><span> of discipline and obedience out of you?” the Specialist snarled, turning back to the </span><span>monsters</span> <span>outside </span><span>and opening some holes in the barriers in irregular places as </span><span>her sword clicked into its rifle form</span><span>. </span><span>She racked back the slide and took aim.</span><span> “I </span><em>had some hope</em><span>.”</span></p>
<p class="western">Qrow bared his teeth at her, a mocking smile she would see out the corner of her eye, and seized an opportunity. “Did you really? I’d thought you’d know better than to believe in <em>fairytales</em><span>.”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>She threw him a disgusted look over her shoulder and said nothing.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <em>Huh</em>
  <span>, thought Qrow as he opened fire on the </span>
  <span>Elder</span>
  <span> Manticore’s open mouth. </span>
  <em>Not a flicker.</em>
  <span> She didn’t know.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>That was </span>
  <em>something</em>
  <span> useful he’d got out of this clusterfuck of a current mission, then. He could chalk one more piece of evidence up to her general still playing by Ozpin’s rules, because Qrow would lay good money on Glass being Ironwood’s pick for the next Winter Maiden. Command experience, in the public eye, and absolutely unquestioningly loyal to Ironwood </span>
  <span>and no one else</span>
  <span>. That sounded like Jimmy’s idea of a </span>
  <em>guardian</em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>But she had to be coming up on thirty, which was Oz’s best guess for the cutoff point for who could inherit Maiden powers (</span>
  <em>bullshit</em>
  <span> convoluted rules, apparently Oz hadn’t consciously designed them but he said he’d picked up a pretty good idea of them by this point), and it didn’t look like Ironwood was taking any steps to hand her the powers early. With or without Ozpin’s approval, though Marina wasn’t ever going to earn </span>
  <em>that</em>
  <span>. Who’d ever hand a robot like her that power?</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>A Manticore, shrieking, divebombed the shield overhead – Qrow swung Harbinger up, but it wasn’t needed; the Grimm bounced off the mirrored surface and went spinning out of control back the way it came. The shield flickered at the impact, though. Marina winced.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <em>That shield’s not going to hold much longer</em>
  <span>. And from Marina’s reactions when they took hard hits, Qrow </span>
  <span>had a feeling</span>
  <span> if one of her barriers went down now they were </span>
  <em>all</em>
  <span> going to break, and her aura with them. He fired a few shots at the ricocheting Manticore as it </span>
  <span>tumbled</span>
  <span> back, but it wasn’t in line with the gap in the shields for long.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Look,” he said, frustrated, “just let me at them, will you? I’m not doing any good stuck behind a bunch of walls like this.”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Marina scowled. “If you really </span>
  <em>want</em>
  <span> to throw away life and limb on some reckless stunt – fine.” The barrier in front of him winked out. “Go.”</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Life and limb?” Qrow repeated, incredulous. “It’s nine Manticores and the rest of you lot are doing </span><em>something</em><span>!”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>He didn’t hear her response, though, because he was already charging forward, Harbinger unfolding itself as he went.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p class="western">
  <span>Qrow was fine, of course, afterwards. Bruised and battered and maybe a little singed around the edges, if you wanted to get specific about it, but the Manticores were dead and he was still kicking.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Some of the soldiers weren’t. That wasn’t anything new.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>It would have been easier if he could have resented them, for thinking they could be strong enough, for throwing themselves into a fight they had no business getting into – some days it made a lot of sense to him, where his sister got her worldview from – but that wasn’t how things worked. He could blame Glass, maybe, for yanking them out of their presumably </span>
  <span>boring straightforward</span>
  <span> day-to-day lives to be a numerical advantage against some Grimm, but – only the same way he blamed himself for not saving them.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>He wanted to hunch over at the very furthest terminal in the corner of the records room with his back to the wall, but that was for times when he </span>
  <em>didn’t</em>
  <span> have anything to hide. The room was empty, at least, and he had a good view of the door.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>He’d started with the standards of training the military Huntsmen who hadn’t made the cut to be Specialists got. Then he’d looked up the casualty lists to see if they’d been updated since this morning’s mission yet – they had; you could say </span>
  <em>one</em>
  <span> good thing for the glass robot, she was thorough. He thought she might have been doing it on her Scroll on the airship on the way back, even – and then he’d just kept scrolling. Ozpin had given him a handful of names: seemingly random footsoldiers whose deaths had seemed weird to friends and family, weird enough the stories had made the rounds to someone who’d mentioned it to Oz. Most of their records looked like the sort of everyday tragedies that just </span>
  <em>happened</em>
  <span> sometimes. But there was one, a Private Jimson, who’d been transferred to a new squad out of the blue right before he’d died. And a couple of other names he hadn’t found in the lists where he was expecting them.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>That still might be nothing. It wasn’t even close to actionable, not yet. But it might be something.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>He was looking up previous missions of various Specialists, mostly at random, to give his search history the impression of bored vague curiosity – </span>
  <span>and because he didn’t want to </span>
  <span>have to</span>
  <span> go be social in the rec room right </span>
  <span>that minute</span>
  <span> –</span>
  <span> when he heard footsteps approaching the door. Three sets.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Oh, I’m sorry,” said Clover, framed in the doorway, wearing that same friendly smile as always, “I was looking for somewhere to hold an after-action meeting; are we interrupting?”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Qrow shrugged. “I can go. I wasn’t doing anything important.”</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Well, </span><span>this isn’t important either</span><span>!” </span><span>That was Harriet Bree from the Ace-Ops, who was now pushing her way into the room past Clover; the third pair of footsteps had belonged to Marrow Amin, who Qrow could now see paused awkwardly behind his teammates in the corridor. Those were the two he’d seen fight alongside Clover, during the breach in the city. Qrow hadn’t paid much attention to them at the time.</span><span> “</span><span>We’re the Aces, we don’t need to go over our mission reports together like we’re Academy cadets. </span><em>We</em><span> know what we’re doing already. But </span><em>Clover</em><span> insists on it.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>I do,” agreed Clover, following Harriet into the room, still smiling.</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>There was something odd about the way the Ace-Ops interacted with each other, thought Qrow. He’d noticed it last night with Elm </span>
  <span>when she spoke to Clover</span>
  <span>, too. He couldn’t really identify </span>
  <em>what</em>
  <span> it was that felt off, but they didn’t act the way he was used to seeing from teams.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<em>Some</em> of us think continuing education is important,” said Marrow pointedly.</p>
<p class="western">“And <em>some</em> of us have been out of the Academy for more than a few <em>months</em> and don’t have any more to learn,” returned Harriet.</p>
<p class="western">“You never stop learning,” said Qrow flatly.</p>
<p class="western">He hadn’t meant to get involved in the conversation. But what Harriet was saying was just <em>wrong</em>.</p>
<p class="western">“That’s just what I was going to say,” said Clover, and Qrow’s eyes found his.</p>
<p class="western">Someone who could turn his friendliness off and on like a lightswitch had <em>no business</em> coming across so damn sincere sometimes. Or maybe it was the other way round. Qrow had heard him after the King Taijitu fight, worrying about the bystanders down in Mantle getting their keepsakes back: that had to be <em>way</em> beyond professional responsibility. What was <em>real</em> in Clover was good, Qrow was sure of that, but… Qrow couldn’t figure him out, beyond that. He didn’t make any sense.</p>
<p class="western">“Ugh, <em>fine</em>,” said Harriet, breaking the silence.</p>
<p class="western">Qrow realized he’d been staring. He didn’t let himself be embarrassed: it was second nature to him, instead, to sprawl a little lower in his chair, tilt his head and smirk, let Clover notice him noticing him and give the impression it was on purpose. And besides, that jawline, <em>damn</em>. It wasn’t exactly a hardship to look at him.</p>
<p class="western">Clover’s smile broadened in turn. He liked what he was seeing, Qrow could tell.</p>
<p class="western">“What were you reading?” asked Clover. “Anything interesting you’d care to share?”</p>
<p class="western">Qrow glanced down at the record open on his terminal screen, taking it in properly for the first time. <em>Huh</em>. “Apparently you fought a Geist over a frozen lake. Sounds like a pretty good story.”</p>
<p class="western">“The mission report doesn’t do it justice.” Clover leaned towards him slightly. “I could tell you myself, if you’ve got the time.”</p>
<p class="western">“Any excuse to brag, is that it?”</p>
<p class="western">Clover’s voice was warm, and faintly amused. “I don’t see anything wrong with confidence.”</p>
<p class="western">“Not as long as you’ve got what it takes to back it up.” Qrow offered him a slow smile, spread his hands. “I think you do. But I don’t know, I could be wrong.”</p>
<p class="western">Clover pulled out a chair and sat down, crossing one leg over the other. Not all that close to Qrow, still, but angled towards him. Meeting his eyes. “You want me to prove myself to you? I can do <em>that</em>.”</p>
<p class="western">One of the light fixtures over Qrow’s head flickered. Guttered out, for a second, before it came back.</p>
<p class="western">For a moment there he’d forgotten all the reasons this was a bad idea.</p>
<p class="western">
  <em>You fucking idiot, Qrow, you call yourself a spy? Did you forget where you are, who you’re with – you have a mission here, that’s all that matters, people are already dead – and you’d only be a curse on him, anyway, you’d hurt him, you can’t even try –</em>
</p>
<p class="western">“Yeah, maybe you could,” he said, and stood to go. Clumsy fucking conversational exit, but he couldn’t stick around any longer to come up with something better. “Look, I’ve got to go, I’ll leave you to your important Specialist meeting. See you around.”</p>
<hr/>
<p class="western">
  <span>Clover stared at Qrow’s back as he stalked out of the room. </span>
  <em>What</em>
  <em> happened there</em>
  <em>?</em>
</p>
<p class="western">“<em>Really</em><span>, boss?” said Harriet eventually, and Clover resettled his attention back on his teammates where it belonged. “I thought you had better taste than that.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>I didn’t,” said Marrow.</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>There was a pause as both of them stared at him. Overhead, the broken light flickered again; Clover absently reminded himself to notify Maintenance about it.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Marrow realized what he’d said and went red.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>I didn’t mean it like that!” he yelped. “I meant I didn’t think he had bad taste – that </span><em>you</em><span> had, I mean – It just came out wrong!”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Clover chuckled. “I’m not ashamed of having some interest in Qrow. He’s handsome, he’s talented… What’s surprising about that? I’m not the only one who’s noticed, I’m sure.”</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>He smells like a distillery,” said Harriet, with a judgmental look at Clover.</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Clover grimaced. “Well, everyone’s got </span>
  <em>some</em>
  <span> flaws.”</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>No, wait, hold on,” said Marrow suddenly, “</span><span>never mind, </span><span>I take it back. </span><em>D</em><em>id</em><span> I think you had good taste, </span><span>boss</span><span>? Weren’t you with </span><em>Alban</em><span>?”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>It was good to see Marrow joining in with the banter now; when he’d first joined the Specialists he’d been so overawed by Clover he’d swung between gushing praise and tongue-tied silence, neither of which made for a good working relationship. Now… well, he was still somewhat in awe of Clover but he covered it up by being prickly, and that added up to something preferable on balance.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Arguros isn’t </span><em>that</em><span> bad,” said Harriet, picking the opposite side of the argument out of her usual habit, even though Clover knew she didn’t see anything attractive in men. “He’s got good… hair.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>He’s a jerk,” Marrow muttered.</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>He’s an attractive man, I’m an attractive man, adrenaline runs high when you’re on missions together…” Clover shrugged. “No different to you and Elm, Harriet. And it’s over now, anyway.” Alban had started getting… </span><em>awkward</em><span> about the slight difference in rank between them – there wasn’t a </span><em>formal</em><span> discrepancy in their ranks, since the chain of command in the Specialists was a flexible thing, but in practice you got to know where you stood in the General’s estimation – and sex and power didn’t mix. They’d ended things amicably and gone back to beating each other up in the training room after missions instead. It had never been serious, anyway.</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>You and Elm?” said Marrow. “Harriet, when did that happen? Why wouldn’t you tell us? We’re your team!”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Harriet scowled. “It was </span>
  <em>one time</em>
  <span> and it’s not going to happen again. Not everyone’s looking for casual, you know. Just because </span>
  <em>Clover’s</em>
  <span> slept with half the men on base…”</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<em>Half the base?</em><span>” repeated Marrow, in either outrage or amazement.</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>I haven’t!” Clover objected. “I outrank more than half the people here, I wouldn’t do </span><em>that</em><span>!”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Fine, half the men in the Specialists.” Harriet rolled her eyes.</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>That was closer to accurate.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Clover hadn’t tried to make a serious relationship work since his Academy days. Things had just never worked out in the long term; eventually he’d realized he obviously just wasn’t cut out for it. And there was nothing wrong with that! Plenty of people didn’t need romantic relationships to find fulfillment in life. He would know: he’d slept with a lot of them, though these days he was well-known enough in Atlas he tended to keep it to other Huntsmen rather than picking up strangers any more.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Slut-shaming is wrong, Harriet,” said Marrow abruptly.</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Thank you, Marrow,” said Clover.</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>It didn’t look like he was going to get anywhere with Qrow, though. He’d gotten his hopes up at the start, at least for something casual, but Qrow wasn’t interested in him; it seemed like he flirted with everyone, and clearly never meant any of it. Ah well. There were plenty of other attractive men to be found; he’d move on. He always did, after all. His interest had never been serious.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>There’s nothing wrong with it if </span><span>what he </span><em>wants</em> <span>is </span><span>to have meaningless sex all the time with never any emotion attached to it –”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Yes, </span><em>thank you, Marrow.</em><span>”</span></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">Qrow stood in the main briefing room of Atlas Academy and scowled at the mission boards.</p>
<p class="western">He’d known this job was going to be a long one – if the traitor wasn’t covering their tracks, Ironwood would have found them, and if whatever Ironwood was up to and hiding was obvious Oz would know. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, when Oz had asked him. Missions that lasted months on end were nothing new.</p>
<p class="western">Thing was, normally the long missions took him further from civilization. Or at least, from the shiny heavily-regulated parts of civilization. A lot of the time it was just him and the wilderness or the Wastes, and even when it wasn’t, well…</p>
<p class="western">He wasn’t normally in one place all the time unless that place was Patch.</p>
<p class="western">He’d deal with it. Should be <em> better </em> at dealing with it, really, but today was one of those bad days where everything felt like gray fog and every look at him was an attack. He didn’t belong here and everyone knew it. He’d run into Arguros in the corridor earlier, that hadn’t helped; he’d knocked them both over and Prince Pedigree had looked at him like he’d found a stain on his shoe. And now the screens, and the missions on the boards, a day here and a few hours there, go-here-do-that sir-yes-sir, waiting for his name.</p>
<p class="western">Right now his job was to watch and wait. Keep his cover. Look for opportunities to learn more, and only take the deniable ones. He hadn’t even been here a month, it was way too soon to do anything he couldn’t be sure of talking his way out of.</p>
<p class="western">Which mean right now his job probably ought to be fucking perimeter defense.</p>
<p class="western">“Oh, hello there, Qrow,” said Clover in friendly tones, walking in just looking up from his Scroll, which was <em>just</em> what he needed. He’d done pretty well at avoiding <em>Specialist Ebi</em> in the time since that near-disaster in the records room, or at least at avoiding any substantial conversation with him, but here they were now, the only two in the room, and he couldn’t run away again. He could live with looking stupid, but beside everything else, it would be too obvious.</p>
<p class="western">“When do you <em>sleep</em>?” Qrow demanded. It was – he didn’t <em>know</em> how late it was, actually; he’d been out flying, in the dark, using that freedom of movement he got more of than the actual soldiers, though it hadn’t helped anything, and the place had been mostly deserted when he’d got back.</p>
<p class="western">“Soon enough,” said Clover lightly. “I just stepped in to make sure everything’s going smoothly.” He was scanning the mission boards with the familiarity of a lot of practice. Qrow wasn’t sure what details he was picking up on that had him looking relieved. “Looks like it’s all quiet tonight,” Clover said, and smiled at Qrow. “We’ll just trust that that good fortune will hold, huh? Though for best protocol we could do with another person on the wall for the dawn shift –”</p>
<p class="western">Qrow scowled. “I was <em> getting to it</em>,” he muttered, and turned away from Clover to the boards again. Signed himself up to walk the wall, like a good little soldier. <em> Better than trusting anything to </em> <em> <b>luck</b></em><em>. </em></p>
<p class="western">“I wasn’t doubting that,” said Clover, and that friendliness <em>wasn’t real</em>, there was <em>no reason</em> he should be looking at Qrow like that, it couldn’t possibly mean anything. “Qrow, I really do appreciate that you came here, to us, while we need you. I know it’s hardly been interesting work. And I’ve been meaning to say, if you ever want to talk – I never <em>did</em> get to tell you that story about the Geist, and I’m sure you’ve got plenty of your own – or if you want some advice…”</p>
<p class="western">“Why would I need <em>advice</em>?” Qrow sneered. “And from <em>you</em>?”</p>
<p class="western">Clover shrugged, still casual. “You’re new to Atlas, and I know the military life isn’t exactly what you trained for.”</p>
<p class="western">“You think I can’t handle it?”</p>
<p class="western">“I didn’t say that,” said Clover hastily.</p>
<p class="western">Qrow laughed, short and bitter. “Didn’t <em> say </em> that. That’s some real careful wording there, soldier-boy.”</p>
<p class="western">“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” What the fuck did it <em>take</em> to get Clover mad? That hadn’t done it; he’d just gone all <em>intent</em>. “Qrow. You don’t have to make this into an argument.”</p>
<p class="western">What.</p>
<p class="western">No, really, <em> what? </em></p>
<p class="western">What was Clover <em> doing </em>– how did he – why –</p>
<p class="western">Clover stepped back. “I get the message. You’re not interested in my friendship; you’re just here to do the job. I’ll back off.” He smiled, a little. “I know where I’m not wanted.”</p>
<p class="western">“Right. Yeah.”</p>
<p class="western">That was – <em> good</em>. That was what Qrow had wanted, he was supposed to think it was a success. He swallowed back the burning resentment, which wasn’t really for Clover, but about himself and his semblance and the whole damn <em> universe </em> –</p>
<p class="western">He was supposed to be used to cutting people off. He’d done it often enough. It shouldn’t still hurt.</p>
<p class="western">A flicker and a beep, as the mission boards refreshed themselves. Clover raised his Scroll again, swiping through documents on the screen. Qrow seized the opportunity to <em> leave</em>. His instinct was to shoulder past the Specialist in a show of aggression, but that wasn’t going to work how it normally did, was it; better to just disappear.</p>
<p class="western">He stopped, halfway to the door. Wasn’t sure why, until his mind caught up with what his eyes had noticed.</p>
<p class="western">Clover’s expression had gone blank, very suddenly. Hollowed-out. Like there was nothing behind it.</p>
<p class="western">“What –” <em>Shouldn’t have acknowledged it</em>, Qrow knew, but too late now, the word had slipped out. He could tell himself it was for the mission, fishing for information in general, but really he just hadn’t been thinking at all. And he mostly tried not to lie to himself.</p>
<p class="western">Clover looked up from his Scroll, slowly, blankly. Nodded towards one of the displays on the mission boards, up high in a far corner, a village security posting. “Cadmium.”</p>
<p class="western"><em> Mission terminated</em>, said the screen.</p>
<p class="western">
  <em> Fuck the whole world and Salem in particular. </em>
</p>
<p class="western">Qrow went for his flask and drank long and deep, not tasting the vodka as it went down. He’d hardly known Cadmium. A few hours standing on a wall with him, long enough to establish he was as straightforward as he looked, and then Qrow had ignored him to focus his effort on twistier people like Aaron and Mae, and not thought – <em> anyone too decent to be Salem’s mole could be one of her </em> <em> <b>targets</b></em><em>. </em> Not that he knew what he could have done if he <em> had </em> thought of it, here and now. He didn’t <em> have </em> any answers yet.</p>
<p class="western">Clover strode across to the terminal in the middle of the room, his expression more focused now, calling up a map on the central projector, opening reports around it and starting to make lists. Qrow stalked past him back to the mission boards, canceled the one he’d just accepted with an angry swipe of his hand. Made for the door.</p>
<p class="western">“Where are you going?” demanded Clover.</p>
<p class="western">“Where do you <em>think</em> I’m going?” Qrow spat. “To find the nearest <em>bar</em>.”</p>
<hr/>
<p class="western">Qrow knew where the nearest bar to the Academy was already, of course. The city of Atlas liked to think it didn’t have back alleys, but the original district that had been Alsius before they’d lifted it off the ground to look down on everyone hadn’t been nearly as well planned out as everyone up in Atlas pretended it had now. You could find them if you knew where to look.</p>
<p class="western">Admittedly the alleys here were cleaner than their equivalents in Mantle. No one would dream of tagging any of those high white walls. A street-cleaner robot skittered away from Qrow as he stalked past it, like a dog expecting to be kicked.</p>
<p class="western">He hadn’t been in this particular bar before; he’d marked it in his mind, wandering around Atlas when he had spare time, and avoided it until now. He knew what he was going to find when he went in. He wasn’t looking forward to it, but – this one was for the job.</p>
<p class="western">The people clustered at the tables looked up as he stalked in. The conversations didn’t stop, but some of them went quiet and some of the others turned ugly. All the people there had hair cropped short, in accordance with <em> regulation </em>, and the postures of people who lived in armor; they’d shed the armor now, but half of them were still in their uniform pants. They eyed Qrow’s combat gear and the weapon on his back with scowls and muttered among themselves.</p>
<p class="western">This was a trooper bar. Not the sort of place the likes of the Specialists were welcome.</p>
<p class="western">Qrow took a seat at the counter, away from all the others. Ordered whiskey, the cheap stuff, made the bartender leave the bottle. Drank a silent toast to Cadmium. His skin crawled under the hostility of the stares on his back, making his fingers twitch for Harbinger, though he didn’t let himself show he was rattled. He’d known how it would be, going in, and anyway it wasn’t anything new.</p>
<p class="western">He waited.</p>
<p class="western">Wasn’t fair to Cadmium’s memory, really, using him like this, as an excuse to throw perimeter patrol in Clover’s face and storm out. To come here, when he’d always been going to do this sooner than later. <em> But on the other hand – life isn’t fucking fair. </em></p>
<p class="western">He was pouring himself another glass when some of the troopers finally found the nerve to approach him. <em> About time. </em> He turned on the barstool to face them, glass in hand: three of them coming forward – two men and a woman, the guy in the lead with an old scar down the side of his face – and the rest of the bar trying to pretend they weren’t watching them.</p>
<p class="western">“You got a problem?” he drawled.</p>
<p class="western">Scarface folded his arms across his chest. “There’s another bar a few blocks away on Aspiration Street. That one might be more your <em> style </em>.”</p>
<p class="western">Qrow didn’t even try to sound sincere. “Wow, thanks for recommending it.” He took a swig of his drink and didn’t move.</p>
<p class="western">The guy with the scar went red in the face. The woman at his elbow, who had the nubs of antlers sticking out of her forehead, shifted her weight, braced for trouble from either side.</p>
<p class="western">Scarface opened his mouth. Qrow cut across him before he could speak.</p>
<p class="western">“Let’s get this straight.”</p>
<p class="western">He put the glass down behind him, looked the ringleaders squarely in the eye. “I’m not a Specialist, I just work with ‘em, for now. I’d be down in Mantle instead if Atlas let Mantle do anything on its own.” Mixed reactions from that last sentence. <em> Right. Atlas-versus-Mantle’s the wrong angle, then. Work a different one. </em> “I don’t know how things work here, and I’m not much good with rules and restrictions and all that chain-of-command shit. If there’s a real reason I shouldn’t be here, well, thanks for telling me, guess I’ll go check out that other place, drink some overpriced <em> wine </em> with fucking Arguros or something.” <em> Yeah, that one landed. </em> Scarface was still unfriendly, but Antlers had some things to think about now and the other guy, the generic one, had grimaced at Arguros’ name. “If it’s just that this ain’t <em> how things are done </em>? Screw that.”</p>
<p class="western">He turned his attention to the rest of the bar, met a few eyes the way that gave the impression you were meeting everyone’s. People had mostly stopped pretending they weren’t listening. “What, am I supposed to think I’m <em> better </em> than you, just because I’ve got a fancy custom weapon and a license? You lot are out there risking your lives right alongside me. Far as I’m concerned, we’re the same.”</p>
<p class="western">Approving noises from the crowd, though none of them wanted to single themselves out like that.</p>
<p class="western">“Yeah, alright,” said Antlers, shouldering her way past Scarface (who was still glaring, but wasn’t going to do anything about it now) to a seat beside Qrow, “you’re alright, not-a-Specialist.”</p>
<p class="western">“It’s Qrow. Next round’s on me,” he added to the bartender, and won over most of the remaining dissenters with that one.</p>
<hr/>
<p class="western">“An’ wha’ about – wha’ about squad 316, huh?”</p>
<p class="western">“Centinels, wasn’t it? Mines, tunnels, those things come at you –” The woman speaking shuddered and wiggled her fingers on the tabletop, probably meaning to show the skittery way they moved.</p>
<p class="western">“No, but – I mean, yeah, but –” The guy who’d brought the subject up trailed off in frustration, trying to find the words, and Qrow quietly topped up his glass for him; he was one of the ones who’d been real eager, after a little prompting, to talk about all the things that had been going wrong lately, and to hear someone who was practically a Specialist agree they shouldn’t have happened. “They shouldn’t’a been out there, that’s what. New squad. Shouldn’t’a been on their own.”</p>
<p class="western">“Wow, fuck <em>that</em>,” agreed Qrow, and drank.</p>
<p class="western">He remembered that number, where did he remember it from – casualty lists. That was it. Jimson’s squad, his <em> new </em> squad, he’d been reassigned like two weeks before he died. And someone had thought his death looked fishy.</p>
<p class="western">“Yeah, but, <em>but</em>, they weren’t <em>new</em> new,” said the woman, what was her name, Lime. “They weren’t rookies, they knew what they were doing, they just got shoved into a new squad, right? That was just, you know, shit happens. Centinels, <em>eugh</em>.”</p>
<p class="western">“That happen a lot?” said Qrow. He gestured vaguely with his half-empty glass. “You just get – yanked out your old squad, nope, say bye to your friends, you belong somewhere else now? ‘Cause that’s <em>bullshit</em>.”</p>
<p class="western">Antlers laughed, on Qrow’s other side, kind of wildly, the way you laughed at things that weren’t funny. Her elbow jabbed into his ribs. “Computers, dude! Performance metrics!”</p>
<p class="western">“<em>Fuck</em> performance metrics,” said Lime, and the rest of the table drank to that so Qrow drank too.</p>
<p class="western">“See, the computers <em>tell</em> you who’s gonna work together,” said a guy across the table – Tarragon? Terrapin? The most sober guy out of everyone there, though that wasn’t saying much. “Well, I mean, they tell the higher-ups, the higher-ups tell us. And I mean, sure, normally they leave squads together, but – it can happen, you know, some Specialist waltzes in and says, says, right –”</p>
<p class="western">“Squad 316 was robbed,” muttered the guy on Qrow’s right.</p>
<p class="western">“Never mind <em>them</em>, what about Copper?” said White-hair, and Qrow added the name to his mental list. “You hear about that one, Copper Jones? The cargo truck, the Sabyrs? Dunno what the hell he was doing on civvy trader guard. Talk about <em>shouldn’t’ve been there</em>.”</p>
<p class="western">“Oh yeah?” said Qrow. “So where <em>should</em> he have been?”</p>
<p class="western">“He was on mine defense, before that,” said Antlers, and drained her glass. “Way I heard it, he put in a transfer request, though. Said <em>anywhere but here</em>.”</p>
<hr/>
<p class="western">Hearing the names of the dead was miserable work. Qrow didn’t have to fake any of his swaying as he stumbled back into the Academy through a back entrance.</p>
<p class="western">Fucked up that they called it all the <em> academy</em>. This bit wasn’t anything to do with the school, this was military HQ. The corridors buried deep in the bedrock way underneath the glossy spires full of kids for the propaganda posters. He was allowed here and the students weren’t.</p>
<p class="western">Actually this bit was labs. Backdoor entry into the R&amp;D sector. Not <em> secret </em> backdoor, but still. Who else used this access route?</p>
<p class="western">He took a corner wrong and rammed his shoulder into the wall. <em> Haha, ow. </em> That one was gonna bruise, but only until he activated his aura next, so it wouldn’t count, not <em> really </em>. This was the corridor he was looking for but he was on the wrong side of it. He pushed off the wall and staggered forward, listing to his right until he ended up leaning on one of the shuttered viewing windows on the right-hand wall.</p>
<p class="western">Holding himself up with his right hand he’d have a little trouble drawing Harbinger if he needed to. But hey, who was gonna jump him here? (Hah. Hahaha.)</p>
<p class="western">Keep moving forward.</p>
<p class="western">Come to lean on the next door along. Was it this one? No, this was the one he’d been trying when Dr Thingy, Sable, had showed up, wasn’t it. Next one along. The one Marina the glass knight with the robot face had been so careful to seal behind her. No entry for the likes of him.</p>
<p class="western">He slumped against the door. Took one breath, two –</p>
<p class="western">Flared his semblance.</p>
<p class="western">The lock whined, spat sparks. Clicked open. Qrow half-fell into the darkened room.</p>
<p class="western">No one in there, thank… thank something, not the gods, the gods didn’t care. He hauled the door shut again behind him and leaned against the wall with his eyes closed. Just a few moments in the dark and the quiet, to wrestle his semblance back under control, as much as it ever was. To be grateful that this time he’d only broken what he meant to break. Then he’d get to work.</p>
<p class="western">A loud, enthusiastic voice exclaimed, “Salutations!”</p>
<p class="western">Qrow jumped, yelled – grabbed for Harbinger, nearly overbalanced himself – lights were going on across the room, screens lighting up – “What’s with the light show?” he demanded. “Who’s there?” The room was empty. Wasn’t it? Some kind of person-shaped <em> thing </em> under a sheet on a workbench there, but it didn’t look like it was moving…</p>
<p class="western">Face on a screen, big screen at the end of the lab. Sort of a face. Eyes and mouth and a bow on top, all in outline, searing artificial green.</p>
<p class="western">“I am Penny!” said the face. “The P.E.N.N.Y. Project, Atlas’ next step forward in artificial life forms!” It – she – blinked, and her tone changed without a pause. “Qrow Branwen. You are not authorized to be here.”</p>
<p class="western">“Gonna give me whiplash,” Qrow muttered. He raised his hands in apology, remembered he was still holding Harbinger, sheathed it again first. Tried that again. “Yeah, I know, ‘m sorry. Didn’t mean to – trespass or nothin’. Had a few too many at the bar, I guess, an’ the door opened, and…” <em> Just a harmless drunk, don’t mind me. </em> He let his shoulders slump, slurred his speech a little more. “Yer gonna havta report this, ain’t ya. M’rina’s gonna gimme that look, ya know the one – or do you, do ya know it? ‘S… not a nice look.”</p>
<p class="western">“I am familiar with Specialist Glass, yes.” Even the computer didn’t sound like she liked the robot Operative much. That was probably funny. “Hmm. I am supposed to report intrusions into the laboratory that are malicious in nature. This… does not seem to count.”</p>
<p class="western">Qrow breathed out in relief, only halfway faked. “Thanks, kid, you’re a lifesaver.”</p>
<p class="western">Wait. ‘Kid’.</p>
<p class="western">Fuck. His heart sank. He was going to have to say it, wasn’t he.</p>
<p class="western">“Hey, you, uh… you got my semblance in your records, there?” he tried.</p>
<p class="western">“It is not listed!” Actually-a-robot-girl – Penny, was it? – was way too chirpy for this conversation. “Would you like me to add it to your file?”</p>
<p class="western">“No! No, haha, no need, don’t bother with that. Whole world doesn’t need to know. But you should know.” It never got easier, saying it. He leaned against the wall again, squeezed his eyes shut so he didn’t have to look at her. “It’s misfortune. I’m bad luck. That’s how the door opened, probably, I musta glitched the lock.” <em> Open your eyes, come on, Qrow, suck it up, eye contact, she needs to take this seriously. </em> “I don’t normally fu – futz with computers that much, but, the computer ain’t normally a person computer, so… check, okay? After I’m gone. Check your code, make sure you don’t have – bugs or something. Okay?”</p>
<p class="western">“I think I would know if I was glitching. After all, my code is me!” Still too damn cheerful for this conversation. No, not cheerful, <em> earnest </em>. Like Clover. Green eyes, too, but a different green, and he wasn’t here to think about Clover. Mission. Mission, and not fucking up this kid more than he could help it.</p>
<p class="western">“But I will run a systems check,” she continued, another whiplash tone-shift. “It is best to be safe. Father says good data hygiene is very important!”</p>
<p class="western">…Mission, and making sure no one <em> else </em> was fucking with the kid. Qrow pushed himself away from the wall, straightened up some. “Someone tell you to call ‘em <em> father </em>? What does that even mean to you anyway.”</p>
<p class="western">“The male person who created me! And he did <em> not </em> tell me; I asked. The label does not fit exactly, but it feels right.”</p>
<p class="western">That was… probably okay? Fuck it, what did he know about normal family relationships. He went to look at the person-shaped thing under the sheet. “My father is Dr Pietro Polendina,” Penny was saying, “the greatest scientist in all of Atlas! He created me, and now he is working on a body for me too!”</p>
<p class="western">“How about that.” Yup. Teenage-girl-shaped robot. Halfway assembled, no legs yet, big gaping hole in the torso for some component to go in that wasn’t here. Face looked kind of like the one on the screen, complete with the bow in the hair. He poked it, remembered he shouldn’t be touching it, decided <em> it’s fine, it’s just a robot </em>. Penny wasn’t in there, she was in the terminal, on the screen.</p>
<p class="western">“When you said I was a person,” said the girl on the screen, “what did you mean by that?”</p>
<p class="western">“Huh?”</p>
<p class="western">“You said I am ‘a person computer’.” She looked at him pleadingly. “<em> Am </em> I a person? How do you know?”</p>
<p class="western">Qrow raked a hand through his hair. She was asking <em> him </em>? “Do I look like a philosopher? I dunno, kiddo. Ask your dad, alright?”</p>
<p class="western">“Oh. Alright.”</p>
<p class="western">Now he’d disappointed her. Damnit. He was either too drunk for this conversation, or not drunk <em> enough</em>. One of those was fixable, except it turned out somehow his flask was empty already, so apparently it wasn’t.</p>
<p class="western">“Look, Lightshow,” he said, “all I know is, is I couldn’t have this conversation with a holo-receptionist.” He poked the robot’s shoulder joint. Looked like there were beam guns built into the arms. “Or a Knight.”</p>
<p class="western">“I <em> see </em>. Conversation is important, then.”</p>
<p class="western">“Uh-huh. D’ya talk to your dad? Or – <em> can </em> you, talk to him about things? Important things.” Inbuilt weaponry, and what else was Atlas making robots for, he should have thought about this sooner, he was such a <em> moron </em>. “If you didn’t want to fight, whaddaya think he’d say?”</p>
<p class="western">Her face tipped to one side slightly on-screen, like a head-tilt. “I don’t understand.”</p>
<p class="western">Qrow strung his thoughts together more carefully, with an effort. “Well, you’re designed to be a Huntress, right, that’s why they built you, but what if you didn’t want to, huh? What if one day you decide you want to be a, a dancer or a baker or something, do you think your father would let you do that? Would you feel – safe, asking him about it?”</p>
<p class="western">“But why would I <em> want </em> to be a dancer or a baker?” said the kid. Penny. Charts flickered across the screen beside her face. Qrow didn’t even try to understand them. “ Across Remnant, on average, three people die <em> every day </em> in Grimm attacks . Once I have my body, I will be able to protect some of them. Why would I <em> not </em> want to be a Huntress?”</p>
<p class="western">Qrow was reminded of Ruby, suddenly, so powerfully that his heart ached. Little Ruby with her love of storybook heroes and Summer’s silver eyes, asking for his help designing a scythe just like her <em> Uncle Qrow</em>’s.</p>
<p class="western">“Can’t argue with that,” he admitted. <em> This fucking world. </em></p>
<hr/>
<p class="western">So he had some more names. He wrote them down, back in that echoing-empty apartment, hard copy for security, memorize the list again in the morning when he was sober and then destroy it. He knew about Penny. Knew what Marina was doing in that classified lab about the cognitive whatever-it-was – he should have <em> asked </em> Penny, what she was doing, what sort of tests they did, damnit, damn him. He hadn’t been expecting people, in the labs. Conversations. Philosophy.</p>
<p class="western">She hadn’t <em> sounded </em> like she was living in fear of being – deleted, or something.</p>
<p class="western">She had a <em> father</em>.</p>
<p class="western">Not Qrow’s place to figure out what needed done about it. If anything did. He was just the scout. Did Oz know about Penny already? Who knew. He tapped out a message on his Scroll, double-checked the encryption. Triple-checked. Sent it.</p>
<p class="western">Oz wouldn’t be expecting a report from him so soon. Qrow wouldn’t be hearing back from him. He was going to call that <em> good </em> because it wasn’t like he had any real progress to report yet.</p>
<p class="western">He stared at his Scroll, lying on the military-issue bed in that terrible blank-walled apartment, and thought about messaging Tai. Not to wake him up, of course, he had the girls and all, just so he’d see it in the morning, but – Tai would worry, if he did. About his fucking <em> sleeping habits</em>, of all the fucking things –</p>
<p class="western">Oz wasn’t going to win the war against Salem in <em> Qrow’s </em> lifetime, teaching future generations was one of the most important things they could do, all that shit, yada yada. Tai was still fighting, sure. But he hadn’t been an active duty Huntsman in fourteen years now and it fucking <em> showed</em>.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Come find me on <a href="https://philologer-mosaic.tumblr.com">tumblr</a>!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Some dialogue in this chapter has been stolen shamelessly from volume 7, because there’s no way I was ever going to come up with something better. You’ll know it when you see it!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">In principle, when the Ace-Ops were all on call together they were supposed to spend that time all in the same place, the same as any other team of Specialists, to minimize the chaos and fumbling as they scrambled to respond to whatever crisis might come up. In practice… well, Vine was here. He was seated on the floor in lotus position, eyes closed and face serene, with his back to the mid-morning sky outside the windows that curved around the far side of the room. Harriet, across their earpieces, was heckling the sparring going on in the training room, several floors down; she must be wishing she could join in right now. Clover had no idea where Elm or Marrow might be. But that didn’t matter, because they were the Ace-Ops, hand-picked for their coordination in the field. All five of them would fall into place without even a pause, if they were needed.</p><p class="western">In principle Clover wasn’t supposed to be the one running mission control right now, either. But everything went more smoothly when he was in the control hub, so no one was going to tell him no.</p><p class="western">Really it was best this way, anyway. Onyx could focus his time on whatever classified project he was working on on a terminal away to the side, instead of splitting his attention across the projection table and the rest of the screens with their ever-changing information – these computers took in data from all across the kingdom and analyzed and collated it into mission profiles, or added intel to those missions posted up by the council, on top of all the functions they fulfilled for the base and the Academy. And Clover, meanwhile, could be the first to know if any new threats cropped up for his team to deal with. If the General stopped in on his way down from his office a few levels above them and frowned at him about it, Clover would say as much to him.</p><p class="western">Though General Ironwood hadn’t looked in on mission control in a while, actually. Of course, he was a busy man, and the point of the chain of command was that the day-to-day business of the military ran itself, but still…</p><p class="western">Clover was distracted, but not so much that he missed the first flicker of the alert. “Onyx!” he called immediately, to hand off his place in mission control, already standing up, knowing Vine would be opening his eyes and rising to his feet too.</p><p class="western">Then he absorbed what he was seeing on the screen, and hit the button for the base-wide alert.</p><p class="western">“All on-duty Specialists, report to the hangar bay for search and rescue! I say again, all on-duty Specialists to the hangar bay!”</p><p class="western">Vine fell in behind him without a word as he ran for the hangars. Onyx had taken over the announcements and was calling up a platoon of regulars to join them; Clover was half-listening and scanning maps of tunnels on his Scroll at the same time, because <em> he </em> was never going to trip over his own feet.</p><p class="western">“What’s happened?” called Marrow through his earpiece as they descended the stairs.</p><p class="western">“There’s been a mine collapse.” Several, in fact, in the very oldest SDC mine. Clover heard Elm suck in a breath at the information. “There are survivors trapped in there, and the Grimm will be moving in.”</p><hr/><p class="western">Into the hangar bay, in a flow of other people like the rush of water, joining more Huntsmen milling around by the airships. Clover waved for them to board. “We’ve had a mine collapse, we need to move fast. Full briefing will wait until we’re in transit!”</p><p class="western"><em> Full briefing will have to wait until I’ve </em> <em> <b>assembled</b> </em> <em> it</em>, he amended internally. SDC Mine #1 was a <em> maze</em>, a tangle of old mined-out passages and new ones dug underneath or beside them, and they only had partial maps of where the collapses had been. And he wasn’t sure yet who he had to work with, either; it was never clear which Specialists who hadn’t been specifically on call at the time would consider themselves <em> on duty</em>.</p><p class="western"><em> Case in point. </em> Marina, still buckling her sword-belt, caught up with him as he split from his team to grab one of the seats in the cockpit of the airship behind the pilots. Ah, the privilege of rank: somewhere to sit where no one else could see you planning the mission on the fly. Where <em> was </em> the General?</p><p class="western">“You’re off-duty,” Clover said as Marina dropped into the seat beside him and jammed her earpiece in under her helmet. She looked frazzled, as much as she ever did, which was to say her fingers were flexing and twitching of their own accord.</p><p class="western">“You called in everyone.”</p><p class="western">Clover wasn’t inclined to argue. “You take perimeter, I’ll run the search?”</p><p class="western">“My thoughts exactly.” She glanced at him out the corner of her eye. “You do realize I’m the superior officer here, Ebi.”</p><p class="western"><em> Oops. </em>He gave her a sheepish smile. “I know.”</p><p class="western">“Maps,” said Marina, holding her Scroll out imperiously for the file transfer, and then into her earpiece, “I want fourteen shield pylons and eight cohorts of AK-135s to this ship. Aircrew, check over the medical supplies on board and report back to me. And I want Levine,” she added to Clover.</p><p class="western">“You’ll have her.”</p><p class="western">Clover began sorting through the suddenly-increased list of current on-duty personnel, swapping back and forth between that and the maps of the collapses, assigning people to sectors of the mine. Marina was issuing more orders in the background. He almost didn’t notice when their airship finished loading and took off. He was partnering up solo Operatives for the job; no one did search and rescue on their own if there was an alternative at hand.</p><p class="western">“You shouldn’t go in alone either,” said Marina when she’d clicked off her earpiece, glancing over at his Scroll.</p><p class="western">“I know.” Clover hadn’t put much thought into that; he could work with anyone. He didn’t look up from the maps. “Lavender needs a partner.”</p><p class="western">“You should take Branwen.”</p><p class="western">Clover whipped his head round to look at her, startled. “I’m sorry, Marina, I think I misheard you.”</p><p class="western">Marina drummed an agitated rhythm on her vambrace with her fingertips. “You didn’t look at your performance stats after the King Taijitu breach. Did you.”</p><p class="western">“No, I didn’t.” There had been a lot of clean-up work to be done after that one, as there always was with fights in populated areas. Clover frowned. “I know Qrow and I were good together then, but really, good enough that <em> you’d </em> recommend him to me?”</p><p class="western">“This has nothing to do with my <em> personal </em> opinion of him.” Marina scowled; the rhythm she was tapping out on her forearm turned more intense. “He’s arrogant, insolent, willfully disobedient, and <em> far </em> too reckless with his personal safety. He would never have graduated Atlas Academy. But he <em> is </em> skilled.” Her fingers stilled. “And evidently he likes you.”</p><p class="western">“He doesn’t <em> like </em> me,” Clover corrected her; the idea seemed almost laughable. He turned back to the personnel assignments. <em> Aaron and Kelvin. Kelvin to clear blockages and Aaron on crowd control; send them in through the ice tunnels to the north. And then Alban with them… </em></p><p class="western">“Ah. Then in that case it must be your fighting styles that are complimentary.” Marina grimaced. “Analysis rated the odds of a full evacuation of that street with no civilian casualties as low even with you there. But you pulled it off. It must be Branwen that made the difference. Not to mention the fight against the Taijitu itself. Coordinating so well with a near-stranger trained in another kingdom is <em> bizarrely </em> unlikely.” She shook her head. “Only you, Clover.”</p><p class="western">Clover found a carefree smile to give her. “You should be used to it by now.”</p><p class="western">He hesitated for a fraction of a second over his Scroll – Qrow could be… standoffish, and Clover had agreed to give him his space – <em> no, </em> he amended the thought, <em> we agreed to keep things professional. Working together now would just be about what’s best for the mission; it wasn’t even my idea</em>. Personal feelings didn’t enter into it. There wasn’t <em> time </em> to think about that.</p><p class="western">He assigned the two of them to work together. And then moved on to the next on the list; Alban would need backup of his own, and he still had to find a partner for Lavender…</p><hr/><p class="western">“So,” said Qrow, as they headed into the mine, hurrying through the clear ice-tunnels of the highest level on their way down to where the cave-ins had been, “you and me, huh? Was that just <em> chance </em> paired us up together?”</p><p class="western">“According to the numbers, apparently we work well together.” Clover sounded kind of stiff. Qrow decided that he meant it. So this <em> hadn’t </em> been his idea.</p><p class="western"><em> He said he’d back off and he meant it. Good to know. </em> Though he found it wasn’t really a surprise.</p><p class="western">He smiled sidelong at Clover. “Yeah, I’ve been hearing about all that analysis stuff you’ve got here. I guess even you have to jump when the computers say how high, huh?”</p><p class="western">Clover’s smile turned more natural. “Actually, in this case it was Marina who said it.”</p><p class="western">“Really? Jeez, no wonder you didn’t tell her no.”</p><p class="western">Clover glanced behind him in case anyone else had heard that little bout of <em> unprofessionalism</em>, but Qrow had made sure to put some distance between the two of them and the other Huntsmen following them in before he started this tack, just in case… well, just as a general principle, really; he wasn’t coming up with any <em> specific </em> concerns. They were out of earshot of the others all the same, though.</p><p class="western">“She does technically outrank me,” Clover agreed cheerily. “At least when we both remember.”</p><p class="western">That was probably too unprofessional for him to say in front of the other Specialists either.</p><p class="western">They rappelled down the mine shafts to the lower levels rather than risking the elevators. Clover used his fishing rod for that, and seriously, a <em> fishing rod</em>, Qrow really wanted to ask <em> why. </em> Not to mention <em> how</em>. He could probably even just ask, and get a straight answer, with this guy. But he’d finally managed to establish that they were nothing more than colleagues, temporary ones at that; it’d be a bad idea to go making <em> conversation </em> with him now.</p><p class="western">Just stay on target. Keep moving forward.</p><p class="western">They split up in their pairs when they hit level four, spreading out through the warren of tunnels branching off from the access shaft. An experienced enough Huntsman could use their aura to feel for life signs, same principle that let even townies without their auras unlocked know when someone hostile was watching them. This far down, and when they’d moved so fast getting here no one even knew where the cave-ins <em> were </em> yet, it was their best way of finding the survivors. They hadn’t stopped to ask directions from the miners who’d been in the uncollapsed tunnels: everyone staying up top with them was too busy bracing for incoming Grimm. <em> And anyway it would have ruined their image</em>, Qrow assessed. Uncharitably and he knew it, but – <em> The heroic Atlas military swooping in to save the day with their fancy computer intel and dashing uniforms can’t go asking for help from some bunch of lowly mine workers, can they. </em></p><p class="western"><em> Ruined </em> <em> <b>our</b> </em> <em> image. I’m one of them, right now. </em> The thought left a sour taste in his mouth.</p><p class="western">“Here,” said Clover abruptly, halfway down a tunnel which didn’t feel much different from the others except for the way it kept twisting round corners, and broke into a run. Qrow followed, the prickling across his shoulders resolving itself as he got closer into the weird vague half-knowing feeling of <em> people nearby who don’t know you’re there</em>. Clover was calling the rest of the Ace-Ops back, heavy on the repetition because the signal across their earpieces kept cutting in and out. (Mostly because they were so far down underground, Qrow reminded himself; that had been in the briefing. It wasn’t <em> just </em> because of him.)</p><p class="western">They didn’t wait for the rest of the Huntsmen to show up. As they rounded another corner and came to the blockage – a massive slab of rubble filling the tunnel floor to ceiling – Qrow felt the much more familiar itch in the back of his mind that was <em> monsters incoming</em>. “We need to get in there <em> now</em>,” he said grimly, and Clover didn’t question him. Just traced arcs on the wall of debris with one hand and said “Can you cut <em> here </em> and <em> here </em> –”</p><p class="western">Qrow made the cuts, braced the whole time in case the rocks fell inwards and set off any loose Dust in there, but Clover swung in almost before he’d finished and hooked the cut-out section out of the way with a flick of his fishing rod. Maybe there <em> was </em> something to what the computers had said, about them working together.</p><p class="western">Behind the cave-in: a dozen miners, splotched with black, some of them bleeding, huddled together to the side of the tunnel – another one pinned under a fallen slab of rock – and four Centinels just surfacing – no, five. Not much of a threat to a couple of trained Huntsmen. He and Clover swept through the Grimm, back to back, before they could even get near the civilians. And Harriet showed up in time to punch the fifth one into a wall.</p><p class="western">Then the rest of the Ace-Ops were there too, widening the tunnel entrance and hurrying over to the miners, Elm hauling the rubble off the woman who’d been trapped, Vine bringing out the med-kit. Qrow fell in with them without a pause. No one was barking orders this time, it was all a word here and a gesture there and lending help wherever you saw it was needed. It had been a long time since he felt anything like that. Weird to find it in the Atlas military of all places. It wouldn’t <em> last</em>, of course, but it was there for now.</p><p class="western">A young man with blood in his hair, dog’s ears pinned back in distress, staggered to his feet not far from Qrow – or halfway to his feet, before he fell again. Qrow was there to prop him up before he hit the ground. <em> Fuck, how young </em> <em> <b>is</b> </em> <em> this kid? Sixteen, seventeen? </em></p><p class="western"><em> Old enough not to appreciate being called a kid, not here. </em>“Easy there,” Qrow muttered, supporting him, “take it slow.” Gash on his temple there, already scabbing over; looked like that was the source of the blood. His eyes tracked Qrow’s finger fine.</p><p class="western">He looked up as he helped the boy to stand and caught Clover watching him.</p><p class="western">Clover looked like he was having deep thoughts about something, but what the <em> hell </em> could he find in what Qrow was doing that would be worth thinking about? It wasn’t as though this was anything impressive. He was only doing the job in front of him.</p><p class="western">Qrow raised his eyebrows at him in challenge. Clover shifted uncomfortably, cleared his throat and went back to paying attention to the floating stretcher he was unfolding.</p><p class="western">“Boss?” called Marrow. He still wasn’t looking away from the half-crushed miner he was keeping frozen with his semblance so she didn’t bleed out, but he’d just been listening intently to a stocky dark-skinned woman with big curling horns who’d singled him out to talk to. “Apparently there was another crew near here – tunnel 38? – that probably also got trapped –”</p><p class="western">“If anywhere in this sector was gonna collapse I’d put my money on there,” confirmed the woman, who Qrow reckoned was the one in charge of this lot of miners unofficially if not officially. “Uh. Sir.”</p><p class="western">The rest of the Ace-Ops were busy here, but Clover glanced at Qrow, across the tunnel, a look that was a question. Qrow was already moving. He nodded back, matching Clover’s determination.</p><p class="western">“Don’t worry,” said Clover. “We’ll find them.”</p><hr/><p class="western">“Dead end,” said Qrow flatly.</p><p class="western">Not a blockage from a cave-in, either, just a tunnel that the miners had stopped digging partway through, or hadn’t finished yet. Qrow pressed his hand to the end of the wall just in case there was something to be sensed on the other side of it – though it’d more likely be subterranean Grimm than survivors in this case – but no, that was solid rock.</p><p class="western">“Blast these maps,” muttered Clover. “Alright, we’ll have to backtrack; we must have taken the wrong turn down that last fork.” He frowned, presumably thinking over all his plans and files. “On the plus side, we’ll have a faster route back to the access shaft from there with the rescuees.”</p><p class="western">The two of them headed back down the tunnel, which was wide and straight for all it ended so suddenly, with lights set in the walls at intervals and stray rocks scattered across the floor. Clover never seemed to worry about where to put his feet. A sign on one wall caught Qrow’s eye from this angle, and he snorted.</p><p class="western">“Something funny?” said Clover mildly.</p><p class="western">Qrow jerked his head at the sign. <em> Danger: Exposed Dust. Exercise Caution.</em> “They call that a <em> safety measure</em>?” It was stupidly inadequate.</p><p class="western">“It seems strictly better than <em> not </em> having the sign,” offered Clover, with a shrug.</p><p class="western">Qrow rolled his eyes. “It’s patronizing at <em> best. </em> And somehow I don’t really think the Schnee Dust Company has the <em> best </em> intentions at –”</p><p class="western">He cut himself off, slowed to a stop. Had he felt –</p><p class="western">Yeah. The ground shifted again under his feet.</p><p class="western">“Clover?”</p><p class="western">Clover turned professional in an instant, one hand on his weapon, braced for threats. “Is there a problem?”</p><p class="western">“Maybe.” Qrow took a careful step, then another. He couldn’t <em> see </em> any cracks in the floor, but if anything that was worse: meant he didn’t know where he needed to get clear of. Was that chunk of Dust in the wall over there lighting up, flickering, or was it a trick of the light? “I don’t think this tunnel’s all that stable either.”</p><p class="western">“It should be alright,” said Clover, and stepped <em> towards him </em> –</p><p class="western">“What are you <em> doing</em>?” Qrow hissed, and went to shove him away –</p><p class="western">The ground lurched. And dropped out from under them.</p><p class="western">Rocks were falling in around them – something hit Qrow hard across the chest – he saw Clover reach for him, heard him shouting something incoherent – Qrow grabbed for a handhold, but it dissolved under his fingers – he hit the ground on his back, hard, went sliding across the rocky ground, and Clover landed on top of him. Qrow’s heart was pounding wildly. Both of them were gasping for breath.</p><p class="western">Their faces were very close. Qrow’s eyes caught on Clover’s parted lips.</p><p class="western">
  <em> Now that’s just unfair. I’m not even drunk right now. </em>
</p><p class="western">“Qrow, are you alright?” Clover scrambled off him, in kind of a hurry, and offered Qrow a hand up.</p><p class="western">Qrow took it before he could think about whether it was a good idea, letting Clover haul him upright. “I’m fine,” he said automatically, and then took stock of whether it was actually true. Yeah, his aura was still active. He was just bruised, nothing serious. “Are you?”</p><p class="western">“No harm done.” Clover smiled ruefully. “You broke my fall. I’m sorry about that.”</p><p class="western">They had broken through into an even lower level of the mine, a narrow, uneven passage, half-lit by the red glow of a vein of raw Dust in one wall. Behind Clover, Qrow could see where the ceiling props had given way and the roof had fallen in. The hole they’d fallen through had been stoppered up by the rockslide; only a few glints of light were coming through it. <em> Yeah, we’re not getting out that way. </em></p><p class="western"><em> Actually I’m surprised that didn’t turn out </em> <em> <b>worse</b></em><em>. </em> If they’d ended up buried <em> under </em> the rockfall…</p><p class="western">“Never mind that.” Qrow couldn’t even muster up any anger, his thoughts too consumed with what <em> could </em> have happened. “What were you thinking getting <em> closer </em> to the danger area, Clover? That was a stupid risk. You should’ve stayed clear.”</p><p class="western">“And left you to fall?”</p><p class="western">“So instead you got us <em> both </em> stuck down here.” Qrow sighed. “Not that I don’t appreciate the effort, but… no, you know what, I <em> don’t </em>appreciate the effort.”</p><p class="western">“I had to try.” The tunnel was narrow. They were still standing very close to each other, and Clover’s earnest eyes were fixed on him. “That might have been the wrong call, but I don’t regret it.” He shook his head. “I wasn’t expecting the collapse to happen that quickly. I should have had plenty of time to get you out of there; I don’t know what happened.”</p><p class="western">“Oh.” <em> Fuck. It’s me, of course it’s me. </em> <em> <b>I</b> </em> <em> happened. </em> Qrow wanted a drink, desperately, but this was going to be hard enough without having Clover looking at him like he was some kind of pariah before he even got started. He closed his hands into fists at his side so he wouldn’t go for his flask, his nails digging into his palms with a sharp sting. Took a step back. “Yeah. I know why.”</p><p class="western">Was he really going to say it? Just admit what he was, unprompted, while he was living surrounded by potential enemies – he could play it off still, probably, spin up some line of bullshit, make up a superstition or something – it would only take one indiscreet mention and the whole damn <em> base </em> would know and they’d be throwing him out of Atlas, maybe literally without knowing he could fly – and he barely knew Clover anyway, but –</p><p class="western">“Qrow?” said Clover. Qrow didn’t look at him.</p><p class="western">But if they were going to end up working together again, if Clover was serious about the computer metrics thing and what it meant, then the guy deserved to know what he was getting himself into.</p><p class="western">“My semblance,” he said. Wretchedly. “I bring misfortune. I can’t really control it.” He made himself raise his eyes to meet Clover’s. Fuck, he felt so <em> exposed</em>, like he was being stripped naked and then flayed raw. “That’s why the rockfall happened, because I was there.”</p><p class="western">He – didn’t really know what was going on with the look on Clover’s face.</p><p class="western">And then whatever that expression had been, it was gone, and Clover was giving him a faint smile, full of sympathy. “Hey,” he said, “don’t beat yourself up over it. It’s not the end of the world.” He glanced over the rocks behind him, raised his fishing rod and sent the hook flying out towards the roof of the tunnel –</p><p class="western">It struck one rock, knocked into another, so a few stones came tumbling down, and – and a gap opened up where the two of them had fallen through. Wide enough for that fishing rod to reel both of them out. <em> Without even disturbing the rest of the rubble</em>.</p><p class="western">“<em>My </em> semblance is <em> good </em> fortune,” said Clover, and winked at Qrow. “Lucky you, huh?”</p><p class="western">Clover put his arm around him and pulled him up out of the hole and into the light, and all Qrow could think was <em> how can this be </em> <em> <b>real</b></em><em>? </em></p><hr/><p class="western">There were no more collapses. The rest of the mission went perfectly smoothly, though that still meant there wasn’t any time for the two of them to just talk. Not that Clover knew what else he could have said. After all, he and Qrow weren’t exactly <em> friends</em>. Everything Clover had said about respecting Qrow’s boundaries still applied.</p><p class="western">Best just to let it lie.</p><p class="western">And after the mission, of course, there were casualty reports and debriefings and logistics meetings, at least for Clover, late into the night. Marina said she’d update the General herself, after those were done, and shooed Clover away when he tried to come with her: apparently there was nothing more he was needed for.</p><p class="western">He stopped in the main briefing room on the way back to his apartment, just to make sure there weren’t any changes on the mission boards that he needed to know about. And then he was thinking Marina was probably right, he should turn in for the night…</p><p class="western">“Hey, you’re here!” That was Qrow, sitting in a sprawl in one of the briefing room chairs, blinking up at Clover. “Took a while. All that paperwork, huh?”</p><p class="western">Clover paused in the middle of the floor, taken aback. “Were you… waiting for me? Here?”</p><p class="western">“Eh.” Qrow waved a hand across the air lazily, and Clover’s heart sank. “Had some shit to think about, and then, you know, who else comes in here, middle of the night, ‘cept you, huh?” He swayed to his feet, one hand on the back of the chair for support. “S’aaaall good.”</p><p class="western">“Qrow, you’re drunk.”</p><p class="western">“Yeah.” Qrow was smiling at him. It looked oddly gentle. “Dunno if you noticed, Clover, but that ain’t new.” He took a few careful steps forward, still swaying. “Clover. Cloves. Need ta tell you something.”</p><p class="western">“You <em> need </em> to go home and sleep it off.” Clover moved forward too, to be in a position to catch Qrow if he fell over. “You can tell me in the morning, alright?”</p><p class="western">“Nah, I can’t,” said Qrow in light tones, “I’m a pieceashit coward, I couldn’t say it sober.” He stumbled, caught himself with a hand on Clover’s shoulder, leaned in closer. “<em> Clo </em>–ver. So you know when I told ya to back off?”</p><p class="western">Clover looked at Qrow, who was halfway draping himself over him now, one hand pressed to Clover’s chest. “You’re… sending some mixed messages there, buddy.”</p><p class="western">“Heh, yeah. ‘M <em> trying </em> ta unmix ‘em.” Qrow’s arm tightened around Clover’s shoulders. His smile was wide and amazed. “I didn’t wanna hurt ya. I thought I had ta stay away. But it’s okay! You don’t have to go!” He laughed, his voice cracking. “<em>Clover</em>. Shamrock. Lucky charm. ‘M not gonna hurt you.”</p><p class="western">
  <em> Oh. </em>
</p><p class="western">Of course that was what this was about.</p><p class="western">All his past interactions with Qrow abruptly made a lot more sense.</p><p class="western">“It’s okay!” breathed Qrow, into Clover’s ear. “You’re <em> safe</em>.” He sounded like he was close to tears.</p><p class="western">“…Yeah. It’s okay, Qrow.” Clover rearranged Qrow’s arm across his shoulders and put his own arm around Qrow’s narrow waist. “Come on, let’s get you home to bed.”</p><p class="western">“Whoa, movin’ pretty fast there, Cloves,” slurred Qrow. “<em>Not </em> that ‘m sayin’ no ta you –”</p><p class="western">Clover sighed. “You don’t mean that, you’re drunk.” He started steering Qrow towards the door. “Are you even going to remember this in the morning?”</p><p class="western">“Prooobably not!”</p><hr/><p class="western">Qrow was mostly out of it for the walk through the halls, just stumbling along with his head down under Clover’s guidance. He was awake enough to unlock his apartment door on autopilot, but Clover left him in a chair while he went to get him a glass of water and came back to find him unconscious with his head on the table.</p><p class="western">“Qrow?” he said gently. “Come on, you can’t sleep there.”</p><p class="western">Qrow roused, blinking at him blearily. “‘M <em> fine</em>.”</p><p class="western">“No, you’re not.” He put an arm around Qrow to support him, offering him the water. “Drink this, alright?”</p><p class="western">“Alright.”</p><p class="western">Qrow leaned into his arm. Clover smoothed his hair out of his eyes for him.</p><p class="western">Qrow drank the water, and smiled half-seeing up at him, and went where he was led. Clover got his shoes off him, and his cape and rings, and guided him down onto his bed. Qrow was asleep before his head hit the pillow.</p><p class="western">Then Clover let himself sink down onto the end of the bed himself. Now that he didn’t have taking care of Qrow to focus on, he was suddenly overwhelmingly tired. He scrubbed a hand across his face.</p><p class="western">
  <em> One more person in my life who only wants to use me for my semblance. </em>
</p><p class="western">He’d thought Qrow already knew. Arrogant of him, perhaps, to assume that Qrow would be talking to other Specialists about him, but… some people had gossip to share about everyone, and any conversation about Clover <em> always </em> came round to his semblance sooner or later.</p><p class="western">Usually when people found out, it… changed things. It wasn’t a surprise, really, that this time turned out to be no different.</p><p class="western"><em> You’re </em> <em> <b>safe</b></em><em>, </em> Qrow had said, his voice cracking in anguish, and he’d clung onto Clover like he was drowning and Clover was a rock in a stormy sea.</p><p class="western">Clover had never seen Qrow relax before. Oh, he put on a good <em> show </em>of being carefree; Clover had never noticed the tension always underlying it until it was gone. Even now, while Qrow was asleep or maybe unconscious, unhappiness was creeping back into his expression.</p><p class="western">And, well… Clover was here to protect people, to help them. He wanted to, and he couldn’t let himself do otherwise. He had <em> so much</em>, handed to him by fortune, unearned; of course he would give it away, to anyone who needed it, and anything else he had to offer along with it. He could hardly begrudge any of it to Qrow, who had <em> nothing </em> and found the strength to keep on going and even help people regardless. It didn’t matter how Clover felt about it.</p><p class="western">He stood up, ran his hand across his face again. He didn’t know what his expression was doing right now, but there was no one else around to see it, so that didn’t matter. He pulled the blanket up over Qrow’s shoulders, tucked it in, rested a hand gently on the man’s arm for a moment.</p><p class="western">Then he assembled his face into professional focus and strode out of the room, reaching for his Scroll as he went. He would be needed somewhere else, surely. There was always more work to be done.</p><hr/><p class="western">James Ironwood reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. The stubble on his jaw prickled at his flesh hand. “Ozpin, I will <em>listen</em> to your advice. But <em>nothing you have said today</em> has been convincing. I’ll run my kingdom how I please; I don’t tell you how to run <em>yours</em>.”</p><p class="western">Ozpin, or rather his image on the terminal screen, green-washed from the lighting in his office, leaned forwards as though he could reach James from here. “You’re making a mistake, James. If you would just <em>tell me</em> what you’re planning –”</p><p class="western">“That’s need-to-know. Unless you’re going to send me an <em>army</em> –”</p><p class="western">Ozpin looked at him levelly. “I don’t have an army.”</p><p class="western">“I <em>know</em>.” James terminated the call with the stab of one finger.</p><p class="western">His metal hand clenched on the edge of his desk.</p><p class="western">Ozpin might have thousands of lifetimes to obsessively refine some million-step plan for a <em>perfect bloodless victory</em>, but the rest of the world didn’t have that luxury. They needed to <em>act</em>. There had never been a center of science and industry like Atlas before; their military was the finest in the world and their weapons technology was advancing further all the time. Soon enough humanity wouldn’t have to cower behind their walls while the Grimm ruled the world, whatever Ozpin had to say about <em>secrecy</em> and <em>panic</em> and <em>balances of power</em>.</p><p class="western">James knew he was onto something this time. He only had to look at the behavior of the Grimm: the increased raids, the mixed-species packs. Salem knew what he had his people working on. And she was <em>scared</em>.</p><p class="western">An entry request to his office: Marina Glass. The shutters over the windows were already lowered; he cued the door open from his desk.</p><p class="western">Marina saluted crisply and set her Scroll on the projection table, transferring files across. “Today’s after-action reports, sir, and the other files you requested.”</p><p class="western">“Is there anything in there you’d bring to my attention?”</p><p class="western">“No, sir.”</p><p class="western">James descended the steps to join her, his gaze fixed on the projector. “And Project Aegis?” he asked.</p><p class="western">“Yes, sir.” Marina called up those files: statistics, schematics, complex analyses theorizing about this and that factor in their tests. “The latest results.”</p><p class="western">James looked them over: a cursory scan, for now; the scientists’ quibbling could wait. Just from the numbers he could see there was barely any change from the last set of results. His jaw tightened.</p><p class="western">“It’s not enough.”</p><p class="western">Marina, who knew this, stood there on the other side of the table at parade rest and said nothing.</p><p class="western">“How far can you move up the schedule without compromising security?” James demanded.</p><p class="western">“One test every two weeks. No more than that, sir; there have already been some scattered rumors. Though that hasn’t caused any incidents as yet.”</p><p class="western">James waved a hand, dismissing that. “Soldiers talk.” <em>About anything and everything.</em> Any accuracy in the rumors would be lost in the noise.</p><p class="western">“They do, sir.” A fractional pause. “The other constraint is the availability of the mission control computers, for statistical analysis –”</p><p class="western">“Here.” He jabbed at the terminal. “My personal authorization. You have access to the control hub at any time. Halt whatever other processes there you think necessary. <em>Get me results</em>, Marina.”</p><p class="western">There was a cold light in Marina’s eyes. She saluted him again. “Yes <em>sir</em>.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So now they know each other’s semblances! … turns out it doesn’t solve as many problems as we were all hoping it would.</p><p>And meanwhile: James, what are you doing. (Picture volume 4 era Ironwood in volume 2-3’s outfit.)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i have rewritten this chapter <em>so many times</em></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">“<span>Alright, that’s enough out of me,” said Clover, wrapping up the briefing. Mostly it had been protocols and procedures, and then the latest round of people claiming (or being handed) mission assignments. </span><span>A routine thing, now.</span><span> “You all know where you’re going. Make it happen, people!”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>The assorted Specialists – everyone who’d showed up for duty as usual even after the chaos of yesterday’s mission, which was most people, though Qrow had noticed Mae hadn’t put in an appearance and neither had Marina – filed out of the briefing room in no hurry, a babble of separate conversations starting up. Qrow stayed leaning against the wall in the back for a while, waiting for the crush to subside a bit. He had – well, less of a headache than he’d have expected, but still, the briefing had been kind of hellish. Did Atlas </span>
  <span>
    <span>have to do </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span> with hard-light?</span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">“Qrow,” said Clover in a low voice, joining him at the back of the room as the last of the Huntsmen left. He sounded – awkward. That was weird enough it put Qrow immediately on alert. He wasn’t quite looking Qrow in the eye, either. “About last night.”</p><p class="western">
  <em>Oh. Fuck.</em>
  <span> Qrow grimaced. “What did I do,” he asked, resigned.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>He’d spent last night trying to shut up the part of him that had been so angry someone could have a semblance that just handed out good fortune – that had been stuck resenting the sheer </span>
  <em>unfairness</em>
  <span> of it all, as if thinking like that could help anything. It had taken a long time. And a lot of liquor. If he’d </span>
  <em>said any of that to Clover</em>
  <span> –</span>
</p><p class="western">No, he remembered getting through <em>nothing in life is fair and by now you know better than to expect it</em><span> and then coming round to </span><em>at least </em><em><b>someone</b></em><em><span> gets to have things work out in their favor, that must be nice</span></em><span><span>, and he was pretty sure deciding it was a good idea to go try to talk to Clover – in this room, even, that was right – had been after that. He remembered </span></span><em><span>that</span></em><span><span> much.</span></span></p><p class="western">“<span><span>You, ah. You did say you weren’t likely to remember it.” Clover sounded like he was picking his words carefully. “You said some things… of a personal nature… that I don’t imagine you would have wanted me to hear if you had been… thinking clearly.”</span></span></p><p class="western">“<span><span>Or thinking at all.” Qrow sighed. “Don’t beat around the bush, Clover, I know what I’m like. Was I insulting you or coming onto you?”</span></span></p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>Clover went kind of red and looked away. </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>That answers that one.</span>
  </em>
</p><p class="western">“<span><span>Fuck.” Qrow squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his temples as his headache spiked, and also partly so he wouldn’t have to look at Clover. “Yeah, you’re right, whatever I said, I didn’t mean it and I wouldn’t have said it sober. I’m sorry. Not that that’s worth shit when I can’t promise it won’t happen again. If you want me to stay away from you I can do that. Or stay away except for on missions or something –”</span></span></p><p class="western">“<span><span>We don’t need to go </span></span><em><span>that</span></em><span><span> far.” Clover shifted uncomfortably. “You’re a great Huntsman, and you’ve done good work with me and my team. And then there’s, ah, the matter of our semblances, and our synergy in combat…”</span></span></p><p class="western">“<span><span>Right.” That was a bitter thought. </span></span><em><span>You’re never going to have any respect for me as a person after seeing me like that, but I’m less of a ticking time-bomb when I’m around you and you know it, so you’re going to put up with me anyway.</span></em><span><span> “Look. I’ll try not to get </span></span><em><span>that</span></em><span><span> drunk around you again. Can you just – forget whatever I said and pretend the whole thing never happened?”</span></span></p><p class="western">“… <span><span>Alright.” Clover went to say something more, hesitated, closed his mouth again. Probably for the best. Qrow didn’t want to know what it would have been.</span></span></p><p class="western">“<span><span>Hey, uh, Clover?” Qrow ventured. “Are you the reason I didn’t wake up lying on a floor somewhere this morning?”</span></span></p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>Clover ran his hand across his face. “I made sure you got home safely, yes. It was the responsible thing to do.”</span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">“<span><span>Well… thanks.” Qrow wasn’t any good at coming across as genuine, but right now he was damn well trying to get it right. “I mean that. Thank you, Clover.”</span></span></p><hr/><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>Another day, another mission. This time the Dust convoy Qrow was escorting back to the city from one of the more distant mines had come under attack, but it had only been a handful of Ursai. Easily dealt with, though some of the robots that were Qrow’s only backup here had got mauled.</span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>From his position in the leading truck he’d seen the Ursai on the horizon at about the same time </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>they’d</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span> noticed a convoy full of targets. The pack had changed direction real sharp, going from aimless wandering in the general direction of Mantle to head-on charge at the trucks full of Dust so suddenly it had almost been funny. Qrow had been waiting for them by the time they got there, and they’d practically run themselves straight onto his scythe.</span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>No strategy there. No sign of any intelligence directing the Grimm, at least not to that convoy at that moment. Just the ordinary danger that came with putting yourself outside a kingdom’s walls. More Grimm in the wild lands right now than there should be, that was for sure, especially for Solitas, as if they needed any more confirmation Salem had her eyes on Atlas, but – when it came to her eyes </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>in</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span> Atlas, Qrow hadn’t found any evidence yet. There was nothing tying those dead troopers to each other, except things so general they applied to half the live ones too. And as for the dead Huntsmen, well, that was the nature of the job, wasn’t it.</span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <em>
    <span>Oh, come on, whoever you are,</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span> he thought mockingly to the traitor, imagining them as just a featureless silhouette in a long white greatcoat, </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>get on with it. Here I am showing up from outside the kingdom as backup just when you want Atlas isolated and struggling, a suspicious bastard with no history with you and no reason to trust you like the rest of your colleagues must… you should want </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <b>me</b>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span> dead, for sure. Taking you a while to get around to it, isn’t it? </span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span>He was spending enough time outside the walls playing convoy guard, they’d had plenty of opportunity for a convenient Grimm attack already.</span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span> What’s the hold-up, you scared of one tired old drunk?</span>
  </em>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>The trucks pulled in through the Mantle gates. Qrow waved to the troopers on watch, got salutes from them in return. Up on the wall there were workers replacing one of the </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>gate shields</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span> that had been half-slagged by Manticores in yesterday’s attack, working fast to have it done before nightfall, and more soldiers standing by overseeing them. Antlers was one of them – or Sergeant Feld when she was on duty, one of the troopers he was keeping in halfway regular contact with in case they heard something new – and her salute to him was more like the outline of the gesture. </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Heh. </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Good for her.</span>
  </em>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>He swung himself down from the truck with a nod to the driver, mission completed, and headed into the inner city on foot as the convoy rumbled away towards the refineries. He didn’t know exactly where he was going, but he’d find it.</span>
  </span>
</p><hr/><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>Robots patrolled the streets, marching in lockstep in twos, once you got away from the main thoroughfares. They were hulking gray </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>armored</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span> figures with blue-glowing visors, person-shaped but not people. Qrow was pretty sure at this point he was never going to get used to them. He kept track of them out of the corner of his eye. The people on the street were avoiding looking at them at all, like making the equivalent of eye contact with an Atlesian Knight might bring the attention of all of Atlas down on them.</span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>A huddled knot of people were waving signs outside a branch SDC office as Qrow passed by: demands for specific safety regulations, for 40-hour work weeks, for people to remember a list of names. Not many people, though, and they were steering well clear of the private security goons on the doors. The passers-by were hurrying past without really looking at the protesters either. Qrow made a point of stopping to talk to them, though he didn’t stick around for long.</span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>The flash of one of the big projected broadcast screens high overhead caught his eye as its programming switched over, from an ad for something with the Schnee family crest all over it to a replay of a news report. Marina Glass, </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>speaking for General Ironwood</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>. Not the first time she’d done that. Qrow set the thought aside, for now anyway, and kept going.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Everywhere in Mantle seemed grimy and dark after you’d been up in Atlas, but the part Qrow was making his way through now was worse. The buildings were old, the bricks worn down and covered with soot or the residue from the refineries. Nothing looked exactly stable, and the ones that were apartments had too many names on the doors for anyone’s comfort. Some of the shops were boarded up. One had used to have amateurishly-printed posters in its windows, now all plastered over with </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>cheery </span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>stickers announcing </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>Coming Soon: New SDC Dust Store!</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> Qrow kept his head down. A left here, and a right at the next crossroads.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>Another handful of protesters outside a factory, looking worn-down and dispirited. These ones were mostly Faunus, where the other lot had been mostly humans. There were Atlesian Knights standing on the other side of the road watching </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>them</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span>, as well as the corporate guards – which weren’t SDC this time, by their uniforms. Or maybe they were SDC under a different name, who knew.</span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>Qrow talked to this batch of demonstrators too, for long enough the Knights would get a good clear shot of him if they were recording footage. Long enough to confirm the directions he’d got from the first lot, too, the ones with the list of names, though apparently that lot were a different group; the tall guy with the lizard tail he was talking to didn’t sound impressed with them. Didn’t stay any longer that that, though, because these guys had noticed Harbinger on his back and it was making them jumpy. He turned a corner into a narrower street and kept on going.</span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Some of the heating grilles set into the pavement were flickering. Qrow steered well clear of them. The last thing anyone in this neighborhood needed was more bad luck.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Robyn Hill’s – office, or headquarters, or whatever it was, was down that next street: one more of those old shopfronts, whose owners must have gone out of business long ago. Qrow had a sense of the Knights’ patrol patterns by now, and timed his turn round the corner so the next one passed him in the opposite direction as he did. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>Hey pawn of Salem, if you’re watching this, be worried about me, I’m here to talk peace and cooperation and all that shit your queen hates. </span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>No telling if anyone else could see what the robots saw – he should bait </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>that</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> answer out of Marina or one of the scientists one of these days – but hey, if it worked it worked, and if not, you got up and tried again.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>There was no sign over the window, no posters or ads, just a name and the emblem of a pair of wings printed on a piece of card stuck to the door. Seemed like everyone already knew who Robyn Hill was.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>The woman herself had her head bent over a sheaf of papers and a terminal screen paused on the image of a news report, </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>caught up</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> in discussion with a younger woman with messy white hair and a bell in one of her sheep’s ears. He only caught a snatch of the conversation, something about unionizing, before she broke off mid-sentence and took a few steps forward to meet him, into the circle of mismatched chairs that took up most of the floor space. She was a tall, tan-skinned blond with a confident posture, dressed in combat gear but not visibly armed, and she didn’t hide the way she looked Qrow up and down appraisingly.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">“<span><span><span>Hello, stranger,” she greeted him, with a cool smile.</span></span></span></p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Qrow stuck his hands in his pockets and matched her expression. “Hey yourself. Been hearing a lot about you, Robyn Hill.”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>The white-haired woman was keeping most of her attention on the papers she was annotating, though she glanced up at the two of them occasionally. Robyn wasn’t making any move to invite her into the conversation. Trusting her to handle the other work, Qrow figured, from the way they </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>angled towards</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> each other when they weren’t looking. They fought </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>alongside each other</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>, that was for sure.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">“<span><span><span>All good things, I hope,” said Robyn.</span></span></span></p><p class="western">“<span><em><span>Oh</span></em></span><span><span><span> yeah.” Qrow smirked. “Even the criticism.”</span></span></span></p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Yeah, that got her interest; he could see the way her attention shifted. Before then, she’d been sizing him up and preparing the sales pitch, like she would for any other halfway interested visitor who came wandering in here, but if she was any good at this she’d be trying to recategorize him now. She looked at him levelly.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">“<span><span><span>Well, if you’re expecting me to know who </span></span></span><span><em><span>you</span></em></span><span><span><span> are too I’ll have to disappoint you, Five O'Clock Shadow.”</span></span></span></p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Qrow shrugged. “I’m nobody really. Qrow Branwen. Never asked if being seconded to Atlas gives me some kinda title, and I’d rather not use it if it does.”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Robyn's lips quirked. “You could probably get away with calling yourself a Specialist. There’s a notable lack of oversight in that division.”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">“<span><span><span>Yeah, I noticed.” Qrow grimaced. This time Robyn mirrored </span></span></span><span><em><span>his</span></em></span><span><span><span> expression.</span></span></span></p><p class="western">“<span><span><span>They tried to make me a Specialist, up in the Academy,” she said. “Put me on the fast track: leadership training, battle group tactics, the works. Never a word about what Mantle really needs. So I took what they offered me, and the moment I graduated I brought it back here. To my home.” Robyn folded her arms across her chest. “So how are you finding life as an Operative, Qrow Branwen?”</span></span></span></p><p class="western">“<span><span><span>They don’t tell me half of what’s going on. But I guess they tell you lot even less. Right?” Qrow spread his hands, held her eyes. “Last time I checked the mission boards down here where the independents can get to them, all they had on them was bounties. When it seems like these days there’s an attack on the walls every week or more.” Pause, let it sink in. She wasn’t giving him much to react to. “You’re a Huntress too, and they’re shutting you out of the defense of your home.”</span></span></span></p><p class="western">“<span><span><span>Shutting us out?” That had brought the woman with the bell in her ear into the conversation abruptly; she was looking between them in confusion. “But that’s not – the breaches are emergency response, that’s obvious when it happens, they don’t turn us </span></span></span><span><em><span>away</span></em></span><span><span><span>. They couldn’t if they wanted to! Robyn would get it on</span></span></span><span><span><span>to</span></span></span><span><span><span> the </span></span></span><span><span><span>front</span></span></span><span><span><span> page of every independent news site in the Kingdom!”</span></span></span></p><p class="western">“<span><span><span>I would,” Robyn confirmed. Still noncommittal.</span></span></span></p><p class="western">“<span><span><span>Sure, okay then,” said Qrow, “but I didn’t see you on the ground when that King Taijitu smashed up Sector 17. You weren’t on the wall </span></span></span><span><span><span>then, </span></span></span><span><span><span>either. And last night – your people got the worst of it, didn’t they. Those Manticores got past the airfleet and went straight for you and you weren’t looped into comms to get any warning of it. And I bet that’s not the first time you’ve ended up in trouble like that.”</span></span></span></p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Bellwether darted a glance at him there, startled. He’d only been guessing with that last bit; turned out he was right. Obvious though, really, if you knew what was going on behind all these attacks. There was a weakness there and Salem knew enough to take advantage of it.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Robyn, though, was only frowning. Qrow pressed on. “So for one thing I’m offering to keep in contact with you, let you know what’s going on. And I’m nobody official but I can kick up a fuss in the Academy about the lack of coordination, if you reckon it’d do more good than harm. Or about anything else, too – we can compare mission boards, I want to know what problems in Mantle never make it up to Atlas –”</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">“<span><span><span>If you want to see the problems in Mantle, all you have to do is </span></span></span><span><em><span>look around</span></em></span><span><span><span>.” Robyn laughed harshly. “You’ve got the wrong idea of what I do here, Five O'Clock Shadow. </span></span></span><span><em><span>Mission boards.</span></em></span><span><span><span> You’re more like the rest of them up in Atlas than you think.”</span></span></span></p><p class="western">“<span><span><span>What?” Qrow felt the world drop out from under him. Fuck, he’d misread her, he’d been on the wrong angle from the start and it was too late to redirect – he didn’t even </span></span></span><span><em><span>know</span></em></span><span><span><span> what he should be correcting to – </span></span></span><span><em><span>I fucked up, I fucked up, Salem’s going to pick her people off one at a time while the rest of us stand by and do nothing…</span></em></span></p><p class="western">“<span><span><span>You’re right,” said Robyn, “when that King Taijitu smashed up </span></span></span><span><em><span>East 25</span></em></span><sup><span><em><span>th</span></em></span></sup><span><em><span> Street</span></em></span><span><span><span>, I wasn’t there. The military handled it just fine without me. Last night we came under attack because we were guarding the Crater district – which you might know as </span></span></span><span><em><span>the slums</span></em></span><span><span><span>? It’s an obvious target for Grimm attacks and yet it always goes underdefended because most of the people who live there don’t have a </span></span></span><span><em><span>recorded address</span></em></span><span><span><span>.”</span></span></span></p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>No.</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> She was right, he’d missed that, all of it, why the fuck hadn’t he </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>thought</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> –</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">“<span><span><span>And how about that mine collapse. Three days ago. You were there?”</span></span></span></p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Qrow nodded </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>blankly</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">“<span><span><span>I’m sure you did good work. Saved a lot of people.” Her eyes were hard and uncompromising. “I’m sure you’ll be there next time it happens, too, to pick up the pieces once the disaster’s already happened. Meanwhile the Council will issue Jacques Schnee a slap on the wrist and a fine he can afford to pay, if he doesn’t weasel out of paying it at all.”</span></span></span></p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>And the mission today, too, and all those other times. Playing convoy guard for the fucking SDC as if they couldn’t hire their own private security. And how many times the troopers said it got turned into their job to go guard the mines.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>That was the job, though. I had to – fit in, up there, toe the line, keep my head down – Oz says there’s a mole and the mole would be up in Atlas, the fate of Remnant is at stake here – </span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>but none of that did Mantle any good, did it.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>His flask was in his hand already. He drank. It didn’t really help.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>He’d quit doing the convoy runs, find some other way to get what he was going for there. Useless gesture, really. Better than nothing.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">“<span><span><span>I’ll take you up on your offer, though,” said Robyn coolly. “For a little advance warning during emergency response, I mean. It couldn’t hurt.”</span></span></span></p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Behind her, glitchy lines flickered across the terminal screen. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>Couldn’t hurt.</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> Qrow wanted to laugh, suddenly, though nothing was funny at all.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><hr/><p class="western">“<span><span><span>Demonstrations so far have been sporadic, so it isn’t easy to quantify their effects, but they seem to be concentrated in these areas.” Marina jabbed sharply at the projected map of Mantle with her stylus. Clover, standing at the front of the briefing room with her as befitted his rank, couldn’t see the screen without turning awkwardly around, but he could guess which districts she would be indicating. There were some parts of their sister city that were really struggling at present, and as they headed into </span></span></span><span><span><span>the</span></span></span><span><span><span> winter things were only going to get worse.</span></span></span></p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Robyn Hill was wasting her talents as a Huntress, with all the political agitating she was doing instead. But Clover could agree the citizens of Mantle did need </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>someone’s</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> help on that front.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">“<span><span><span>If this unrest continues, we should expect spikes in Grimm attacks </span></span></span><span><em><span>in addition</span></em></span><span><span><span> to the increased numbers we’re already dealing with, targeting these same districts.” Marina scowled at her map as though it was inconveniencing her, gesturing again with the pointer.</span></span></span></p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>The politics were none of Clover’s concern, though. His job was to protect the people from Grimm.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>He scanned the room as his colleague continued to speak. Marrow looked like he had opinions about some of what was being said; Clover would have to hear him out afterwards, and raise the topic with Marina later if Marrow had had any substantive objections to make. Harriet was fidgeting, but still listening; that was always her way. </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Not a problem.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> He’d make an opportunity for her to burn off that energy in the training room after the briefing. Lavender was paying earnest if twitchy attention, perched on her chair with her arms wrapped round herself, but Clover knew she’d been having a hard time of it lately without her partner; it was about time he checked in with her again. Qrow’s expression was unreadable, but his shoulders were tense. Worse than they usually were, though probably no one else could see that. Clover made himself go on looking past him like he had for everyone else in the room, and set himself to assessing how much attention Aaron was paying to the briefing. (Not enough, in Clover’s opinion, but he was going to leave that up to Alban to deal with for now.)</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">“<span><span><span>Now, the recent damage to the walls –”</span></span></span></p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>The pointer slipped out of Marina’s hand and clattered across the floor to come to rest at Clover’s feet. Clover didn’t let his expression slip; it wouldn’t do to </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>show</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> his concern in front of their various subordinates. But Marina wasn’t normally clumsy. Was she more agitated than she appeared? She could be hard to read…</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>At the back of the room, and almost imperceptibly, Qrow had flinched.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Marina went on with her briefing, perfectly composed except for the brief irritated </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>twitch</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> of her fingers at her side. Clover, who after all wasn’t standing up front in everyone’s eye to contribute anything out </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>loud</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>, tapped and flicked the stylus with his foot, sending it spinning up into the air and letting it drop into his open hand, and slipped it back to Marina as she reached past him to make her next point. He caught Qrow’s eye as he did so, gave him a little smile of reassurance.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>There, see?</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> he told him wordlessly.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span> No harm done.</span>
    </em>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Qrow’s expression of startled gratitude hurt to see.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Three days ago in this same room Qrow had been practically crying on his shoulder, and he would </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>never</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> have let Clover close enough to see that if he’d had the choice – he would never have let </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>anyone</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> see. It was an uncomfortable kind of intimacy, and made much worse for the fact that Qrow didn’t remember. Clover wasn’t entirely sure he’d made the right decision, not confessing to Qrow what had happened. But before their talk the next morning had come round to that, Qrow had said </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>can we just pretend the whole thing never happened</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>, and it had seemed like that was the only place the full conversation could have ended at anyway. They still had to work together, after all, and Qrow had been mortified enough by his loss of control already.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>And – however it had happened, now that Clover </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>had</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> seen past Qrow’s armor he couldn’t just ignore it. He couldn’t just let Qrow go back to holding the whole word at arm’s length, living in fear of doing harm. There was nothing </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>right</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> about that.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>There was something familiar and hollow in Clover’s chest, but he ignored it. He was always </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>alright</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>: he had fortune on his side. It was everyone else he had to worry about.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>He remembered the day they’d first met, the way he’d noticed Qrow would dodge a compliment. It made a lot more sense now that the man wouldn’t be used to hearing anything positive about himself.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>He’d decided to fix that, hadn’t he?</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><hr/><p class="western">
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>That didn’t mean anything to him,</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> Qrow reminded himself. What had Clover done, really? Picked up a thing that dropped on the floor. That was </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>nothing</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>. Less than nothing, to Clover, with all his flashy confident tricks, taking any excuse to show off his skills. He hadn’t even looked at what he was doing.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>He’d looked at Qrow, though. With a gentle smile, one that was just for him, and – </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>that didn’t fucking mean anything, you idiot, stop reading into it, you ought to know better by now.</span>
    </em>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>The briefing was over – or at least, the official part was, and Glass had sure marched out in a hurry the moment she was done giving her lecture. But plenty of Specialists were still hanging around the room looking at the mission boards or the maps and charts on the projection table. Clover was making the rounds of the room; seemed like he was talking one-on-one to everybody. A word of advice here, a hand on a shoulder there.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>And Qrow was just sitting there replaying that moment from the briefing in his head like some kind of pathetic self-deluding fool.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Qrow had fucked something up and Clover had just – fixed it. That felt almost as good as the smile.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>He shoved the thought aside and worked his flask out of his pocket again. Shouldn’t drink in front of Clover, really, but he did anyway. Caught Clover’s pinched expression as he noticed and felt like a worm for it, but it wasn’t like he was </span>
  <em>that</em>
  <span> drunk. Wasn’t like he’d made any promises to him he couldn’t keep, either. If Clover expected anything much of him he was going to be disappointed in that sooner or later, so Qrow might as well get it over with now.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>And he shouldn’t care what Clover thought of him, anyway. Shouldn’t care what any of them thought, all these loyal soldiers in their crisp white uniforms making claims to perfection, like they didn’t see the rot underneath it all. </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>He was here to do a job, nothing more, and the sooner it was done the sooner he could put shining corrupted Atlas behind him.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>Glass couldn’t drop the topic of Mantle fast enough.</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> If Qrow had to bet – and it </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>was</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> only a bet, she’d covered her accent pretty well – she was one of those people that grew up down there, climbed as high as she could to get out of it, and now flatly refused to look back down. And Arguros had stormed away from Clover in a huff and summoned his teammates to follow him.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>But that still left plenty of others. People who were still here, and trying to help. That tall pale tattooed guy from the Ace-Ops, Vine Zeki, was messing with the data on the projection table, simulating likely attacks and best responses. Marrow’s voice was audible above the background chatter for a moment as he spoke passionately to Clover, about the protesters having a damn good point, </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>not that he put it in those words</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>. Behind </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>them</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>, Mae Levine rolled her eyes at </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Marrow’s back</span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>, but it didn’t stop her signing herself up for a shift overseeing the repair to the walls.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>Sometimes all you could do was solve the problem that was in front of you.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>With a sigh, Qrow got up and headed for the holoprojector himself. Vine was only working with computer predictions; there would be stuff he was missing down on the ground that Qrow had seen. And Qrow – couldn’t just sit by and do nothing. He felt so sure that he was going to fuck up everything that he touched, that it wasn’t worth trying, but – that wasn’t true, was it. Not here and now.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Clover’s hand landed on his shoulder in passing and squeezed, a flare of warm assurance, and Qrow mustered up a smile to return him.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Clover knew who Qrow was now, already, and he could still smile at him, and pick the pieces back up when Qrow broke things, and if that was only out of professional decency then at least Qrow could probably count on it to stay consistent. Better than trying to rely on personal affection.</span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span> Maybe that was something he could trust.</span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">
  <span>Onyx was on the Mantle walls again, overseeing the installation of R&amp;D’s latest prototype energy weapon, and Marina was nowhere to be found – cloistered in the labs herself, no doubt, working on one important project or another – and there had been some kind of mix-up in requisitions for the Paladin project that had left twelve crates of what was apparently the wrong sort of lightning Dust blocking up one of the Academy’s loading bays. Clover would have liked to be more specific than ‘some kind of mix-up’, but he wasn’t sure yet quite </span>
  <em>what</em>
  <span> had happened. Well, he would get the scientists to explain to him in small words what they had </span>
  <em>meant</em>
  <span> to ask for, and then be his politely professional self at the Requisitions people until they told him their side of the story, and find a way to square the circle, and hopefully get this resolved without the General having to go and haggle with Jacques Schnee.</span>
</p><p class="western">He turned the corner past Dr Polendina’s lab, his mind on his work and most of his attention on his Scroll, and walked right into Qrow.</p><p class="western">They both staggered – Clover’s Scroll went flying out of his hands, but he let it go, got his hands on Qrow’s shoulders and steadied him there, took a step back to brace them both. Qrow snatched out a hand and caught the Scroll, and blinked up at him, with a slowly dawning smile. Something in Clover’s chest warmed to see it.</p><p class="western">“We have <em>got</em><span> to stop meeting like this,” he quipped, before he could think better of it.</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Qrow stepped back out of his arms and passed Clover his Scroll back, looking at him strangely now. “We’ve done this before?”</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Oh.” Clover smiled ruefully. “I suppose you wouldn’t remember – I was thinking of when we first met, when you held off that pack of Ursai before I could get there; when you passed out afterwards I, ah, caught you before you fell.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Oh. Well.” Qrow grinned at him, though Clover could see the tension underlying it. “That was… lucky for me, then.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Of course,” said Clover. His own smile felt strained. It probably looked fine.</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>The tension stretched between them. Qrow shifted his weight uncomfortably and leaned back a little with his hands behind his head. Clover checked his Scroll again and then put it away for now: there was no call to be rude, after all.</span>
</p><p class="western">“So, where were you headed?” he asked, determinedly friendly, as though the pause had never happened. “Looking into some weapons upgrades or the like?”</p><p class="western">“Nah, nothing so interesting.” Qrow shrugged. “Just regular maintenance.”</p><p class="western">“Diligent of you.” Clover put some warmth into his smile. He remembered he’d noticed how well the scythe was maintained when he first met Qrow; it spoke well of him that he took such care of it.</p><p class="western">Qrow wasn’t quite meeting his eyes any more, though. “Yeah, I kind of have to be,” he said, with a grimace. “Otherwise… uh, stuff breaks.”</p><p class="western">Darn it all, he’d meant to compliment Qrow, not remind him of his semblance. Doing the same thing for everyone <em>else</em><span> never seemed so difficult. Maybe Clover’s own feelings about the topic were throwing him off.</span></p><p class="western">Or maybe it was that Clover had failed to think through what he was trying to say. He hadn’t expected that comment to lead back to <em>fortune</em><span>. Though perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised.</span></p><p class="western">Clover had a good idea of the distinction between luck and talent, but he had next to no understanding of <em>misfortune</em><span>. Just… catastrophes that happened to someone else, and then he heard about them and got there in time to avert the worst of it. It wasn’t something he dwelled on. He knew there had to be petty inconveniences that happened to other people, too, but his semblance smoothed them out of his life before they could ever happen to him.</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>He couldn’t imagine what it was like to live Qrow’s life. Not just the risks he faced, but the exhausting day-to-day grind of it all, every little thing that could go wrong going wrong. And Qrow faced it all alone. He couldn’t rely on luck to ever save him, so he’d taught himself everything he’d ever needed to save himself. Qrow’s determination, his resilience… the more Clover thought about it, the more impressed he was.</span>
</p><p class="western">That was too forward for this conversation, though, he reminded himself; better not come on too strong. He’d have to find something else to say.</p><p class="western">“So what are <em>you</em><span> up to down here in R&amp;D?” said Qrow, before he could.</span></p><p class="western">And now he’d lost control of the conversational flow, and Qrow was just going to keep deflecting. Well, there would be other opportunities. Clover would keep on trying.</p><p class="western">Qrow did agree to a sparring match with him in the future, too. He’d even seemed pretty keen on the prospect of it, so Clover was going to count that one as a success, and he couldn’t deny <em>he</em><span> was interested to see what would happen between them too</span>. Even though he wasn’t sure when he’d be able to set it up. Something would work out. But he’d have to leave that for later; right now he had logistics to deal with.</p><hr/><p class="western">“Nah, nah, not <em>me</em><span>,” said Aaron Smoke, his hands upraised in mock horror. He resettled himself where he was curled up </span><span>on a corner of</span><span> one of the slightly worn-out rec room sofas. “You wouldn’t catch </span><em>me</em><span> down in the labs getting talked at unless you paid me. I just hand Pendulum off to the tech geeks and get her back all shiny and upgraded a few days later.” He grinned. “You’re a braver man than I am, Qrow.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Yeah,” agreed Qrow, propping his feet up on the low table between them, “you might blend into the walls down there in your Specialist whites, and then where would you be if no one could look at you.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Next to Aaron, Kelvin Ignis laughed. “He’s got </span>
  <em>you</em>
  <span> pegged, Aaron.”</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Aaron kicked his partner in the leg. “Excuse you, I am a delight, everyone should look at me. Not that there’s generally anyone in the labs who I’d </span>
  <em>want</em>
  <span> to, mind you.”</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Qrow listed off names, as though it was an idle thought, just more rambling conversation: Specialists he’d seen down there among the scientists, when he’d been poking around himself, because he still thought the science projects were his best route into figuring out what was going on with Ironwood. Like setting snares, out in the wilderness, waiting to see what wandered into them. “Glass, Churmon, Mae…”</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Churmon’s pretty easy-going,” said Kelvin, shrugging his overly-muscled shoulders.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Mae?” said Aaron. He sat up sharply, and then tried to make the motion look casual. Qrow pretended he hadn’t noticed it. “</span><em>She’s</em><span> not someone I’d expect to find in R&amp;D.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Huh.” Qrow narrowed his eyes. “I’ve seen her down there, when I was fixing up my gear. A couple of times now. Looked like she knew where she was going.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Mae Levine. Tall recently-scarred woman made mostly out of sharp edges. One of a very few Faunus in this shining kingdom who’d made it as far as the Specialists. Made a point out of never being impressed by anything. Decent in a fight, pretty good field medic, knew a handful of programming tricks. Spent a lot of time watching people.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Qrow had no reason to think she was Salem’s. Yet. Didn’t have any reason to think she </span>
  <em>wasn’t</em>
  <span>, either.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Oh, really.” Aaron’s pale eyes were lit up with interest. He was the biggest gossip on base, a useful source of information, and Qrow had just handed him something new that would keep him thinking favorably of Qrow’s prying for a while. “You didn’t happen to </span><em>see</em><span> where she was going, maybe, did you?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>I wasn’t exactly following her.” He’d made a note of the corridor she’d turned down, mind, though he didn’t have more than that. He played self-deprecating idiot for Aaron – and Kelvin, who as usual wasn’t saying much, just watching his partner. “Figured she had some official project she was working on. I’m fucked if I can make any sense of how your ranks work around here, she doesn’t get to stick </span><em>senior</em><span> in front of </span><em>Specialist</em><span> but she’s got experience, right? But you’re saying she wouldn’t get put in charge of anything, that it?”</span></p><p class="western">Kelvin scowled. “She ain’t even got experience.”</p><p class="western">“She’s new,” Aaron elaborated. “Well, I mean, not <em>new</em><span> new, not any more, not like dog-boy on the Ace-Ops. Or you, I guess. She joined up a little after we did –” he waved a showy hand between him and Kelvin as if there could be any doubt who </span><em>we</em><span> meant in his mouth – “and that’s always going to be </span><em>new</em><span> to me.” He tilted his head and smirked. “So I’m pretty sure that means </span><em>we</em><span> outrank her.”</span></p><p class="western">“Huh.” Aaron and Kelvin were, what, mid-to-late twenties, came here straight from graduating the Academy, call that five, six years ago. And <em>Levine</em><span> was older than Qrow was. “So what was she doing before she got here, then? Where does she get off lounging around judging </span><em>my</em><span> stories and never telling any of hers?”</span></p><p class="western">“I <em>know</em><span>,” agreed Aaron, with a frustrated eye-roll, “it’s </span><em>such</em><span> a cheap trick.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “I do know a couple of things, though, if you want to hear –”</span></p><p class="western">“Yeah?” said Kelvin abruptly, and put his hand up to his ear. “Uh-huh.” He nudged Aaron with his elbow. “<em>Earpiece</em><span>, Air.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Aaron rolled his eyes in an exaggerated fashion. “Uuugh. You’ve got </span>
  <em>yours</em>
  <span> in and I’m always with you – yeah, alright, fine.” He started rummaging around inside his greatcoat. Qrow tracked what he pulled out of his pockets, out of habit: ammo, a packet of breath mints, an uncut burn Dust crystal, the Ace of Hearts…</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Yeah, he says sorry sir, he forgot to put it in,” Kelvin reported to his own earpiece, covering for Aaron with casual ease.</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Qrow gave Aaron a grimace of sympathy, setting the topic of Mae aside for now. “Your boss calls, huh?”</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Our lord and master!” Aaron found the earpiece in the pocket of his pale blue dress pants, held it up triumphantly for Kelvin to see – Kelvin clapped him on the shoulder, still saying “Uh-huh… yeah… no sir…” to the other end of the call – and then closed his hand on it without putting it anywhere near his ear. Yeah, Qrow could relate.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Hey,” said Aaron, smirking back at him, “you want to come with?”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Qrow snorted. “Sharing the misery around, is that it? Nice to know what you really think of me, Aaron.”</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Oh, Arguros isn’t </span><em>that</em><span> bad.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Qrow looked at him sidelong. Aaron grimaced and corrected himself.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Well, I mean, he’s not worse than any of the </span><em>other</em><span> senior officers around here, anyway. You know how it is, the moment you hand someone rank and power it goes to their head and they start barking orders left right and center. But you have to put up with them, because the gods know </span><em>I</em><span> wouldn’t want to be the guy who has to face </span><span>up to</span><span> the General when something goes sideways. Right?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Yes sir,” Kelvin was saying in the background. “Two minutes. Is it urgent? – Two minutes.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <em>Well, when you put it that way… </em>
  <span>“I guess he’d have to put some work into it to be worse to deal with than Glass,” Qrow conceded.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Exactly!” Aaron jumped to his feet. “So, coming? Come on, oh independent Huntsman, offer us the benefit of your superior wisdom and experience!”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Sure, why not.” Qrow stood up too, settled into a slouch. “You’re shit at flattery, though, Smoke. Anyone ever tell you that?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Kelvin. All the bloody time, because he has no taste.” Aaron put his hand on his partner’s arm to hold him back when he went to head out of the room. “</span><em>Coat</em><span>, Kelvin.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Kelvin, who had shed his greatcoat the moment he got into the rec room and who Qrow had never seen with his vest properly buttoned either, groaned and doubled back to get it. Qrow followed Aaron out the door.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>People showed a different side of themselves in the field, a lot of the time. It was past time he found out some more about Alban Arguros.</span>
</p><hr/><p class="western">
  <span>Arguros was waiting for them in the hangar bay. Qrow had expected to find the pompous bastard tapping his foot and sneering in pointed impatience, when they finally got there – they hadn’t exactly hurried – but it turned out he was caught up in conversation with one of the naval higher-ups, some gray-haired guy with a pencil mustache and a whole lot of shiny stuff pinned to his chest. Looked like casual chit-chat, too, not anything about the mission. And when he finally turned round and saw Qrow slouching behind his teammates, he only sighed.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Aaron,” he said, mock-mildly. “I suppose there was something you forgot to inform me of, while you were having another of your </span><em>earpiece mishaps</em><span>?”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Aaron smiled, all friendly insincerity. “Well, you see, boss, Qrow said he wanted to come along on the mission, and I thought, oh, surely Alban wouldn’t mind that.”</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Aaron Smoke wanted to show off to Qrow and yank his boss’s chain in a deniable way at the same time. Pretty much what Qrow had thought was going on there. Except that Alban knew it too, and was making a big show out of being the better person instead of getting mad. Qrow threw him a wink just to see what reaction it would get.</span>
</p><p class="western">… <span>a flash of irritation, quickly suppressed, and then apparently a charming social smile that had probably been trained into the guy in childhood along with bullshit like which fork to use when. “I would have appreciated more notice, but you’re certainly welcome to come along,” Alban said, and waved them onto the airship. Which was one of the fighter-transports, bigger than they’d need for just the four of them however much Arguros liked to travel in style. </span><em>Rescue mission, then?</em><span> “This isn’t likely to be </span><em>exciting</em><span>, I’m afraid; just straightforward search and rescue. There’s an independent trade convoy heading to Mantle who ran into some mechanical difficulties, and they put out a call for our help.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Qrow shrugged. “That’s what I’m here for.”</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Arguros eyed him skeptically. Qrow eyed him right back. </span>
  <em>Are you </em>
  <em>
    <b>really</b>
  </em>
  <em> here to rescue random Mantle traders one handful at a time, Prince Pedigree? You don’t think that’s beneath you at </em>
  <em>
    <b>all</b>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>? No?</span>
  </em>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>And Arguros didn’t know whether to believe a lowlife like Qrow when he claimed altruism. Well, Qrow could play to type. He didn’t even mind doing it. He could let the guy’s disdain roll right off him like he had Arguros’ own nothing-can-touch-me semblance; it wasn’t like he cared what the likes of </span>
  <em>Alban of House Arguros</em>
  <span> thought of him. He smiled lopsidedly and settled into a sprawl across a row of available seats. “Yeah, and also I was getting bored.”</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Aaron pulled an offended face at that, and Kelvin elbowed him in passing. Alban ignored them both, taking his own seat up front and waving a hand for the pilot to take off.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Well, as I said, you’re quite welcome,” Alban repeated. “I do tend to invite someone else out on missions with us occasionally. As you may have noticed, there are inconveniently three of us.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Qrow remembered Prince Pedigree picking a fight with Clover in the training room, threw out another snare to see what it might catch. “Three of you, and five of the Ace-Ops.”</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Arguros’ lips thinned.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Well, the Aces are the Aces,” said Aaron Smoke, gesturing expansively in a way he probably thought explained anything.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>The Ace-Ops,” Arguros clarified, “are one of General Ironwood’s pet projects.” Definitely a bite of disdain there. “Of course that means everything about them is… micromanaged, somewhat. There are an irregular number of them because apparently that’s what he thought worked best.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>But the boss picked </span><em>us</em><span> himself,” said Kelvin, and grinned.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>And he hasn’t found a fourth person as great as us because </span><em>we’re</em><span> just that good,” put in Aaron.</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>His boss didn’t exactly sigh, but he looked like he would have liked to. Looked kind of like he wanted to commiserate with Qrow over Smoke’s one-track mind, too, when he made eye contact. Qrow couldn’t blame him. But he </span>
  <em>really</em>
  <span> hadn’t expected to find he had anything in common with the guy.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Micromanaged?” he repeated, narrowing his eyes. “Weird to hear you say </span><em>that</em><span>. I dunno if I could tell you anything I’ve seen Ironwood do since I got here.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <em>That</em>
  <span> got the rest of them talking.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Arguros was very clear that he didn’t want to badmouth his General. No matter how much criticism of Ironwood he </span>
  <span>just </span>
  <em>happened</em>
  <span> to repeat in the course of establishing that – and, as it turned out, that was a </span>
  <em>lot</em>
  <span>. Most of it petty pointless whining, spilling over into shit about Clover and Glass as well – Arguros had a couple years more experience than the both of them, and obviously thought that should be worth a lot more than it really was – but there were some things that had Qrow uneasy. The Council was claiming a lot of emergency powers, </span>
  <em>in light of the current crisis</em>
  <span> as the media kept putting it. Qrow had known </span>
  <em>that</em>
  <span> much already, but Alban knew more, from an uncle with political connections who kept track of all that shit, and he said the other three councilmembers would never agree on what to do with it for long enough to put up any serious opposition. That power was all Ironwood’s.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>And what the hell was he doing with it? Robots on the streets of Mantle, newer and shinier robots being rushed into development in the labs, and the flesh-and-blood people of the military (said Alban) being left to fend for themselves in the middle of disaster. That wasn’t even touching on that pattern of suspicious deaths that was half the reason Qrow was here. Or the fact that James should damn well </span>
  <em>know</em>
  <span> what the Grimm’s focus on Atlas right now meant and be </span>
  <em>doing</em>
  <span> something about it, not holing himself up in his office at the top of the Academy tower.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>If we had some more competent leadership calling the shots we wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place,” added Aaron Smoke. Unlike Alban, he wasn’t letting any ideas about </span><em>propriety</em><span> hold him back from saying what he wanted to say. “The Grimm are here in such force because they smell weakness, it’s the only explanation. Or whatever they do that’s not smelling.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>I’m sure the General has his reasons,” said Alban, with only the hint of a sneer, “whatever those might be. Perhaps he thinks we can handle this on our own. We’re certainly not as </span><em>weak</em><span> as some people might </span><em>think</em><span> we are.”</span></p><hr/><p class="western">“<span>Would </span><em>someone</em><span> get that Nevermore at my three o’clock?” snapped Alban, from his perch on top of their grounded airship, firing one Dust arrow after another into the swirling mass of the flock of Grimm over the tundra. Qrow had seen it too: a lone Nevermore peeling off away from the fight and around to make a dive on the civilians huddled by their pair of cargo trucks.</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>He got there first, skidding between the feathers that came lancing at him to kick off from the ground – a few shots to launch him higher and he </span>
  <span>clicked</span>
  <span> Harbinger into scythe form to shear through the Nevermore where its wings met its body –</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Break!” he heard Kelvin shout, and red-orange energy struck the Nevermore with a hiss. Qrow was still halfway through his swing when the creature disintegrated. The loss of resistance left him spinning in mid-air. Easier to correct if he had his own wings right now, but he </span><em>couldn’t</em><span> –</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Mind that ice!” he shouted at Kelvin, seeing the glint on the rocks in front of the other Huntsman as he tumbled, fell, flipped himself upright again and came down </span><em>hard</em><span>. Kelvin waved a hand at him dismissively, turned away and raised his claymore, igniting the flamethrower mechanism in the hilt.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>A little </span><em>help</em><span> over here?” demanded Aaron, who was being mobbed by the rest of the pack. Qrow went. Stumbling a little as he ran – he’d jarred his ankle in that landing, but it wasn’t anything serious. Weaving between the monsters and the rocks, a strike here and a shot there as they dived on him, dodging Kelvin who had had the same idea. On guard for more ice, or worse misfortunes than that.</span></p><p class="western">
  <em>Damn it all, this is why I work alone!</em>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>The next Nevermore stooped on him, leading with its clawed talons, and he hacked them off with his greatsword and opened fire into the beast’s underside to blast it away. Spun to the side, swapping Harbinger into a left-handed grip as he turned, to slice off the next one’s wings as it dived on Kelvin.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Caught a flash in his peripheral vision – no, that was Aaron, he could ignore that. Damn </span>
  <em>annoying</em>
  <span>, though – he dodged another rain of quills and leaped aside at the last minute as he remembered </span>
  <em>that fucking icepatch</em>
  <span>. Aaron and his attention-grabbing flashing-glitter semblance were the reason the Nevermores were staying so focused on </span>
  <em>them</em>
  <span> rather than going for the civilians, but that didn’t mean Qrow had to </span>
  <em>like</em>
  <span> it. The distraction </span>
  <em>or</em>
  <span> the crooning Aaron had started up over all their earpieces as he worked to keep it going: “Here, monster monster monsters, look at me, look at the shiny, you like the shiny, look at me and don’t hit me…”</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>A little professionalism on comms, please!” Arguros demanded, though he was at least laying down a steady stream of cover fire as he intruded his opinion.</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Kelvin muttered something under his breath that definitely </span>
  <em>wasn’t</em>
  <span> professional. Qrow swung his war-scythe through the next monster’s beak and didn’t comment.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>A tearing scrape of metal and a Nevermore ripped the roof off one of the trucks – Qrow sprinted for it, sliced the creature in half before it could turn on the cowering civilians. Wheeled around, almost falling, to see the fight he’d left behind – Aaron had stopped muttering and the swings of his flail were going wild as he tried to focus on too many things at once, but he was holding the rest of the flock’s attention and Kelvin had his back from a distance, surely – Qrow swung Harbinger’s shotgun barrels forward and aimed for eyes, for throats –</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Break!” shouted Kelvin, and Aaron stepped wrong on </span><em>that fucking patch of ice</em><span>, skidding sideways – that red destructive energy lashed out towards him – “Air!” screamed Kelvin, and the Grimm around them </span><em>shrieked</em><span> –</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Aaron flared his aura with a gasp.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Red met pale blue and the energy of Kelvin’s semblance bounced back to him. He grunted and dropped his claymore to catch it, struggling to contain it with both hands until he could throw it at the nearest Nevermore – but he did, he did it, and Qrow breathed again. No </span>
  <em>time</em>
  <span> to react to that. The Grimm were circling round now and Qrow was the only one between them and the civilians. He couldn’t afford to think about what he’d just done.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>The Nevermores bore down on him, and he threw himself forward to meet them.</span>
</p><hr/><p class="western">
  <span>Arguros ushered the last civilian up the boarding ramp of the airship while the rest of the Huntsmen finished moving the salvaged cargo over, offering her his arm, all smiles and charm if you didn’t notice the way his off-hand kept clenching into a fist down by his side where the trader couldn’t see it. The moment the hatch sealed he rounded on his team.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<em>What</em><span> did you think you were doing?” he demanded, jabbing a finger at Kelvin.</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Kelvin folded his arms and glowered silently back at the arrogant ass.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Qrow leaned back against the wreckage of the bigger truck – damaged enough already he couldn’t really do much else to affect it – to take the weight off his leg, biting back a sigh. And observed. This batch of Specialists had more or less forgotten he was there, in the heat of the moment.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>He’d say this much for his semblance, he thought bitterly: there weren’t many things out there better at exposing the fault lines that were already there.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Aaron Smoke stepped in to try to mediate, waving his hands frantically. “Hey, hey, boss – it’s not like he meant to do it! Kelvin’s just clumsy sometimes. Isn’t that right?” He hooked his arm through his partner’s elbow. Kelvin stayed rigid and unmoving. “A clumsy, lumbering </span>
  <em>idiot</em>
  <span>,” Aaron added, his tone bitingly sweet, “who doesn’t </span>
  <em>think</em>
  <span> before he </span>
  <em>acts</em>
  <span> sometimes –”</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>He was fine,” said Kelvin flatly, </span><span>and elbowed his partner away</span><span>. “Didn’t even scratch his aura.”</span></p><p class="western">“<em>That</em><span> is beside the point!” Prince Pedigree started pacing across the ground in front of his teammates, channeling his anger into the motion. He wasn’t going far, though, Qrow noticed. He was staying out of sight of the transport’s windows. “I expect better of you two, I really do. You represent all of Atlas! To make a mistake like that, in front of civilians, is to jeopardize the respect they hold for this institution –”</span></p><p class="western">
  <em>Institution my ass.</em>
  <span> Qrow sneered at Arguros’ back and the fancy spear strapped across it. </span>
  <em>He picked this mission so he could be the dashing hero swooping in to save the day and now he’s just mad his teammates made him look bad.</em>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>That was pretty common, really. Plenty of people wanted to be an action-movie star. Watch the mission boards in any city long enough to pick up patterns and you’d see the flashy missions always got snapped up first while the solo hunts in hard territory stuck around for months until the pay went up enough or someone like Qrow came along. So Prince Pedigree was manipulating mission assignments for his own popularity?</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>That… was a completely normal level of corruption, and Qrow would have been more surprised to find that </span>
  <em>no one</em>
  <span> was doing it. Arguros probably wasn’t even the only one. And yeah, he was an entitled bastard, with no respect for anyone but himself, twisting the system to its fullest advantage – he’d just proved he didn’t even care when his own people got hurt – but he was </span>
  <em>using</em>
  <span> the system, where Salem wanted the whole thing destroyed. Qrow couldn’t think what she might have to offer the guy that he’d want.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Hey,” he said sharply, pushing himself to his feet and taking in their startled expressions as they noticed him again, “if we care what the civilians think, maybe we could start by not leaving them sitting around in an airship in the middle of the tundra? If there’s any more Grimm around, this argument’s gonna draw them right here.” </span><em>Or my semblance will.</em></p><p class="western">
  <span>Arguros glared, but obviously couldn’t think of a way to argue with that. His jaw worked for a while as he struggled to come up with a response. “You have a point,” he said finally, trying for </span>
  <em>gracious</em>
  <span> and not really hitting it. “I’ll see the civilians safely back to Atlas. And we might as well save as much of their property as we can for them. That second truck is still working, yes? You three can drive it back.”</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Oh, come on, boss –” Smoke started.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Aaron,” said Arguros mildly, “I don’t give you many orders, but when I do I would like to have them </span><em>obeyed</em><span>.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>The boarding hatch closed behind him and the airship took off. Qrow watched it go, carrying the civilians safely well away from him.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Kelvin let out a wordless snarl of frustration and slammed his fist into the side of the damaged truck’s cab, denting the metal.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Well,” said Aaron, his smile strained. “That was – I’m, uh, sorry you had to see that?”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Qrow narrowed his eyes at him. “So Arguros </span>
  <em>isn’t that bad</em>
  <span>, huh,” he drawled.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Aaron raised his eyes to the heavens. “Apparently everyone’s disappointing me today!”</span>
</p><p class="western">“<em>Break!</em><span>” Kelvin growled behind him, and the wreck burst apart into splinters.</span></p><hr/><p class="western">
  <span>Half an hour into the drive back to Mantle, and Qrow was halfway </span>
  <em>wishing</em>
  <span> his semblance would bring down another Grimm attack.</span>
</p><p class="western">“… <span>So I’m circling around from behind, readying a strike, but Kelvin goes charging in like the great lummox he is, and obviously Clover dodges him and that fouls up </span><em>my</em><span> strike, </span><em>but</em><span>!” Aaron struck a dramatic pose, as best he could sitting down in the back of the truck. “I redirect!”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Kelvin was driving, in sullen silence, hands clenched tight on the steering wheel. Radiating hostility like a second semblance. Qrow had decided to avoid that and join Aaron in the back, and then immediately regretted it, because </span>
  <em>sparkles</em>
  <span> there was making up for getting dressed down by his boss in front of Qrow by recounting </span>
  <em>every single story</em>
  <span> he could come up with that he thought would make him seem impressive. Most of them came down to </span>
  <em>and then I beat someone in a training match</em>
  <span> with a side of </span>
  <em>yeah everything that went wrong was my partner’s fault </em>
  <em>not mine</em>
  <em>.</em>
  <span> And sure it was useful that Smoke still thought of him as someone to impress, but Qrow was running out of patience with him and Ignis </span>
  <em>fast</em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Petty small-minded people, the both of them, with no vision to spare beyond their own interests, only helping anyone because that was the direction the military and the mission boards pointed them in. If the traitor had their way, sooner or later all the actually </span>
  <em>decent</em>
  <span> Huntsmen and Huntresses in Atlas would be dead and all that would be left was the likes of them.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <em>Though on the other hand… that’s what I look like, too, on the surface.</em>
  <span> They’d bear watching. He took another swig from his flask.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>So I go for another swing, and Clover tries to swing out of the way on a grappling line – and the line breaks halfway through and he just goes </span><em>flying</em><span>! Halfway across the training room!”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Sparkles left a dramatic pause there, expecting some kind of reaction to that – shock? – that Qrow wasn’t inclined to give him. He stoppered his flask and didn’t roll his eyes.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>And?” he drawled, when the pause had stretched out and the rest of the story didn’t seem to be coming.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>What do you mean, </span><em>and</em><span>?” Aaron demanded.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>I mean, what happened next?” He had no idea what Smoke thought he had to boast about this time, if that was the whole story. He hadn’t even done anything. “Normally your stories have a </span><em>point</em><span>, Aaron, or at least an ending. The guy’s weapon malfunctioned. Seriously, that’s it?”</span></p><p class="western">“<em>The guy</em><span>?” Sparkles echoed, incredulous. “Okay, apparently you’ve completely missed the point – maybe I shouldn’t be surprised, </span><em>nothing</em><span> is going right today – you realize who we’re talking about here? </span><em>Clover</em><span>? Senior Specialist </span><em>oh-</em><em><b>my</b></em><em>-semblance-is-good-fortune</em><span> Ebi? Thrown across the room flailing like a complete idiot civilian during a </span><em>training match</em><span>, you’re telling me that’s not a good story?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Yeah,” said Ignis begrudgingly, finally looking round at his partner </span><span>and cracking a smile</span><span>, “guess that one was funny.”</span></p><p class="western">“<em>Thank</em><span> you!” Smoke exclaimed.</span></p><p class="western">
  <em>You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.</em>
  <span> That was </span>
  <em>it</em>
  <span>? Clover made one misstep in the training room – equipment failure, that wasn’t even something he’d </span>
  <em>done</em>
  <span>, that could happen to anyone – and that was all it took for a pair of clowns like these two to rip into him behind his back? As if </span>
  <em>they’d</em>
  <span> never taken a fall? As if they hadn’t fucked up so much worse </span>
  <em>on this mission</em>
  <span>, even – sure, okay, that one had been Qrow’s fault, but they hadn’t exactly been surprised it had happened. Aaron had known how to throw off Kelvin’s semblance already; Qrow would bet shit like that had happened with them before.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>What happened next?” he repeated, and sneered. “Let me guess. He got right up again and demolished the both of you. Hell, I bet he landed on his feet in the first </span><span>fucking </span><span>place.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Well, you don’t have to be like </span><em>that</em><span> about it,” Aaron huffed. “I just thought you’d appreciate knowing that he’s not as perfect as he thinks he is.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Qrow met Aaron’s eyes, derisively. “No one’s </span>
  <em>ever</em>
  <span> as perfect as they think they are.”</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>That jab went right over Smoke’s head. Probably for the best, Qrow decided on reflection; Sparkles was a useful source of information, better not to alienate him </span>
  <em>too</em>
  <span> far. But </span>
  <em>ugh</em>
  <span>. He’d like to challenge the two of </span>
  <em>them</em>
  <span> to a training match, sometime when there was no one else around to get caught in the danger zone, let his semblance go to town and see how </span>
  <em>they</em>
  <span> fucking liked falling all over themselves and getting mocked for it. He could dream. Might be too much of a risk they’d figure it out and he’d have thrown away an advantage over them, though; the Huntsmen here had ‘luck semblance’ in mind as a possibility when most people’d never thought about it.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>And apparently it meant they expected Clover to be perfect. So even the smallest slip-up that could happen to anyone got picked apart, like it was grounds to think there was something wrong with him. Like luck meant everything and could solve every problem.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>All they saw was Clover’s semblance and not the person underneath it. And Qrow – Qrow had escaped </span>
  <em>that</em>
  <span> problem by hiding and lying and never admitting to his semblance unless he trusted someone or he had no choice, but he’d done that because he was a curse. You’d never expect </span>
  <em>good</em>
  <span> fortune to be something that could fuck up your life. Clover had never stood a chance.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Clover’s life was probably fine, though. Right? With all his confident professionalism and his finesse in battle, all his smiles, the way he never hesitated at anything… just because the weight of all those expectations pressing down on him would have sent </span>
  <em>Qrow</em>
  <span> running screaming off the edge of the floating city in short order didn’t mean </span>
  <em>Clover</em>
  <span> couldn’t handle it. Qrow was pretty fucked up, after all; you couldn’t use </span>
  <em>him</em>
  <span> as an indicator for what was okay. And Clover fit into Atlas in a way that Qrow never could.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>If there </span>
  <em>was </em>
  <span>a problem, though – </span>
  <em>Then I’ve got no fucking clue what </em>
  <em>
    <b>I</b>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span> could do about it,</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span> he reminded himself, forcefully. His mission here was already complicated enough without trying to do something about every little fucked-up thing in Atlas. If this one was even anything to worry about! He shoved that train of thought aside. And took a long pull from his flask.</span>
  </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I aten't dead! [GNU Terry Pratchett]</p>
<p>I'm still working on this, I promise.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">“Great,” said Marrow sourly, looking up at the graying sky as they passed through a clearing between the narrow trees, “it’s going to snow.”</p>
<p class="western">Trailing behind the rest of the group, on the lookout for any signs of the pack of Sabyrs that were massing somewhere under cover in the Snowbound Forest taiga to threaten a couple of small towns, Qrow grimaced. <em>But Clover knows about me,</em> he reminded himself, trying to hold onto that. <em>He knew the risks and it didn’t stop him inviting me along.</em></p>
<p class="western">Elm laughed. “What’s the matter, rookie, worried about a little bad weather?”</p>
<p class="western">“I’m not <em>worried!</em>” yelped Marrow.</p>
<p class="western">“Yeah, shape up, Marrow,” said Harriet, and cracked her knuckles. “You’re in the Ace-Ops now, and we can handle anything.”</p>
<p class="western">“She’s right,” said Clover.</p>
<p class="western">Qrow turned his head, and their eyes met: Clover had dropped back through the group to be walking next to Qrow. He couldn’t help but think that Clover had been talking to <em>him</em>, then, not to the whole group of them.</p>
<p class="western">Qrow had been halfway braced for Clover to turn on him, now it turned out his presence was putting the mission at risk after all. He sure hadn’t been expecting that personal acknowledgement. Didn’t stop him thinking about yesterday’s near-disaster, Aaron Smoke and that patch of ice on the rocks, but it was some comfort all the same.</p>
<p class="western">“We should be prepared for reduced visibility,” Clover went on. “In which case, you know what to do. Everyone stick together with your partner, keep in contact with the rest of the team over comms, and trust your aura to warn you of any threats.”</p>
<p class="western">A round of “right”s and “yes sir”s. Qrow joined in without any real hesitation.</p>
<p class="western">Clover was a better commander than Arguros, too. That felt even better; Qrow could trust <em>that</em> <em>.</em></p>
<p class="western">“Though it would be nice if we didn’t have to,” added Harriet, pointedly. “<em>Clover</em>.”</p>
<p class="western">“Wait, what?” said Qrow, startled out of his own head. Surely he’d misunderstood that, hadn’t he? It had sounded like – “How the hell is it <em>Clover’s</em> fault if it’s snowing?”</p>
<p class="western">“Well <em>I</em> don’t know,” said Bree, rolling her eyes, “but it sure would be more fortunate if it didn’t!”</p>
<p class="western">What the <em>fuck</em>? Qrow pulled up short, staring between her and Clover. She shouldn’t be talking to him like that, right?</p>
<p class="western">But Clover only chuckled, so maybe it wasn’t a big deal to him. They were his team, after all. “I don’t control the weather, Harriet,” he said. “And I’m not a scientist, but I expect it would be worse for the kingdom in the long term if it never snowed – do I have that right, Vine?”</p>
<p class="western"><em>Huh.</em> Qrow was used to putting up with – well, outside Solitas, with getting rained on, but it came to the same thing. He’d never thought about it like that. As something that might be <em>outside</em> questions of good and bad luck.</p>
<p class="western">He didn’t look at Clover as he thought about that one. He kind of didn’t want everything about fortune to be about him.</p>
<p class="western">“Why would Vine know that?” demanded Marrow, up in front of them.</p>
<p class="western">Elm shrugged. “Vine knows everything.”</p>
<p class="western">“I wouldn’t say <em>everything</em>,” said Vine wryly. And then, “As it happens, though, Clover is correct.”</p>
<p class="western">Vine Zeki was another weird one, as Specialists went. As Huntsmen in general went, maybe. Qrow slipped out of step with Clover and put that train of thought aside for later, pushing forward closer to the rest of the group to say, “What, everything? Alright, then, tell me, uh… why are Grimm so much bigger in Solitas?”</p>
<p class="western">“I said <em>not</em> everything,” said Vine, frowning at him faintly, and Harriet, completely unsurprisingly, looked back over her shoulder to challenge her teammate with “So does that mean you <em>don’t</em> know?”</p>
<p class="western">“<em>No one </em>knows,” said Vine, his tone patient. “Grimm morphology is a very poorly understood field. However, there are guesses…”</p>
<p class="western"><em>No one knows, right, sure. Only one person knows all of it, and she’s not what you’d call real chatty about her methods. </em> Finding out the Grimm had an immortal magical backer who hated all of civilization had a way of rewriting your assumptions, when it came to questions like that one. Vine didn’t <em>sound</em> like he was having to edit out anything from his explanation that he shouldn’t have known. Probably, at least.</p>
<p class="western">Marrow Amin was a recently-graduated shiny-bright idealist; there’d been no time for Salem to get her hooks into him, and no real levers she could use either – <em>and anyway, he’s a terrible liar</em>. Ederne and Bree were pretty straightforward types, too. He’d worry more about them being Ironwood’s than Salem’s. But Vine… was harder to read. He was a damn <em>philosopher</em>, and Qrow wasn’t exactly Barty Oobleck in the brains department. He couldn’t count on being able to follow whatever chain of logic might be driving Vine.</p>
<p class="western">But Clover trusted him. That was something, right?</p>
<p class="western"><em>Yeah, sure,</em> Qrow told himself bitterly. <em> He also trusts </em> <em> <b>me</b>.</em><em> Not to mention Alban fucking Arguros. </em></p>
<hr/>
<p class="western">The Sabyrs jumped them before they’d moved on much further. It felt like there were hundreds of them: it couldn’t possibly have been that many <em> really </em> , there wasn’t enough out here in the middle of nowhere forest to attract them, but they just kept on coming. Every time they’d finished off one pack another lot showed up. Qrow was tense at first, braced for disaster from one direction or another – he never did well with <em> teams </em> , and he didn’t expect the <em> Ace Operatives </em> to have an easy time of it fitting someone new into the slick rapport they were used to, even if you overlooked that the <em> someone new </em> was <em> him </em>of all people. And in the middle of combat was a real bad time for anything to go wrong. But – for some reason, nothing did.</p>
<p class="western">Things got to be almost routine, even, the way combat did sometimes. The world narrowed down to just this one time and place, to the monsters in front of him and the rhythms of the fight, and everything else that he was keeping track of without any need for conscious thought. Pretty familiar, from plenty of missions in the past. Except for how this time he wasn’t on his own.</p>
<p class="western">Clover seemed to be everywhere, and on top of everything. That fishing rod was a hell of a lot more useful at range than you’d think it could be, in his hands. As the rest of them spread out, weaving through the close-packed trees to chase down the Grimm, Clover kept pointing them in new directions, keeping them in range to support each other. Swinging in to spear through a beast or tangle it up for the killing blow at just the right time, with a word here and a shout of someone’s name there.</p>
<p class="western">And sure, most of the time he called Qrow’s name it was because he’d spotted an opening Qrow had just picked up on that same moment, but there <em> were </em> times the pointer was to something new. And also – after the first few times it happened Qrow stopped feeling like it was an imposition, barked orders and power-tripping micromanagement, and started thinking of it as just… dividing things up. <em> Right, this part’s </em> <em> <b>my</b> </em> <em> job then, someone else has got the rest of it handled. </em>He jumped in at Clover’s call to chop the head off a Sabyr a split second after Marrow froze it, and when he looked up from that he caught Clover’s eye where he was finishing off the Grimm that would have hit Marrow from behind while he was covering them if they’d been any slower, because where else would he have been. They exchanged smiles and turned back to the work.</p>
<p class="western">And it didn’t snow, either.</p>
<hr/>
<p class="western">They cleared the Grimm out eventually – a tough but straightforward fight – and Clover divided his people up into their partnerships to do one last sweep of the area before they called for their ship home. It was important to be thorough, even though they almost certainly weren’t going to find anything more.</p>
<p class="western">‘Partnerships’ was overstating the case, of course. The Ace-Ops didn’t really <em>do</em> ‘partners’; they were more flexible as a team than that. Any one of them could work with anyone else, and Clover most of all. But there was one configuration that they all fell naturally into, when it came to splitting up. And right now it put Clover with Qrow rather than alone.</p>
<p class="western">Qrow wasn’t part of his team, of course. But no one had questioned Clover’s decision to include him in this mission. The Ace-Ops weren’t the type to argue with the control hub’s recommendations.</p>
<p class="western">“So,” said Clover brightly, “you were working with Alban and his team yesterday, right? What did you think of them?”</p>
<p class="western">He’d seen Qrow in the hangar when he got back, actually, though only in passing. Clover had had logistics mishaps to deal with (the lightning Dust had turned out to be highly volatile but useful for some <em>other</em> part of the Paladin project, apparently, so not a total loss), and Qrow had looked… somewhat the worse for wear, and like he wanted to be anywhere but in the middle of HQ right then. Clover thought he might have been limping a little, too. He’d had to clamp down hard on his urge to say something to him: Qrow wasn’t one of his junior Specialists, he was an experienced Huntsman who could take care of himself, and he didn’t need to hear another round of the get-some-rest-and-let-your-aura-recover lecture that Alban would obviously have already subjected him to.</p>
<p class="western">That didn’t mean he couldn’t check in now, though. That particular team match-up had been something of a surprise to Clover, and he was unsure how it would have worked out, but Qrow and Aaron <em>were</em> friends, and – well. If Qrow was getting more accustomed to working with teams, then that was all to the good. For professional reasons, of course. For as long as he was planning to stay in Atlas.</p>
<p class="western">Qrow only shrugged. “They were alright, I guess. I got a mission out of it, anyway, no one else was offering me anything to do.” He glanced sidelong at Clover. “The Ace-Ops are better.”</p>
<p class="western">Clover grinned, tugging a low branch out of their way with an offhanded flick of Kingfisher as they passed. “Oh <em>really</em>?”</p>
<p class="western">“Sure, that’s what I said.” Qrow smirked. “Is that it, are you jealous? What, you want me all for yourself?”</p>
<p class="western">Clover looked over and held his gaze, put some care into smiling back. “Would you be surprised if I did?”</p>
<p class="western">“I’d question your taste, maybe.”</p>
<p class="western">“I have <em>excellent</em> taste.”</p>
<p class="western">Qrow’s step faltered for a second as he blinked at him, and Clover went on, with perfect honesty: “I know a great Huntsman when I see one.”</p>
<p class="western">Clover <em>saw</em> it, this time: the moment where Qrow’s flustered awe that anyone might say something like that to him got cut off hard. He felt his heart clench. Qrow deserved better than the way life had treated him, that was for sure.</p>
<p class="western">“Yeah, you see plenty of ‘em in the Specialists, I’m sure,” said Qrow, as though the subject of conversation meant nothing to him.</p>
<p class="western">
  <em>Does he really not believe me? I like to think I’m a pretty credible guy.</em>
</p>
<p class="western">Well, he’d have to keep trying, that was all. Clover stopped and turned to face Qrow directly, turning up the brightness of his smile; he refused to let Qrow divert him from this track. “There, and elsewhere,” he agreed. “But it’s the ones who come in from outside who are more impressive. Wouldn’t you agree?”</p>
<p class="western">Qrow shrugged. “Sure, I guess. If you insist. Hey, you know, if you want to work with me more often, you’ve only got to ask.”</p>
<p class="western">Clover bit back his sigh. <em>One step forward, one step back.</em> “I did this time, didn’t –”</p>
<p class="western">“Get <em>down</em>!” shouted Qrow, and dived forward past him, Harbinger beginning to unfold.</p>
<hr/>
<p class="western">The ice-encrusted stinger of the Deathstalker would have caught Clover square in the back. Qrow’s hasty strike came in at the wrong angle to shear the stinger <em>off</em>, but he deflected it enough it slammed into the ground beside Clover instead, and carved a long gash down its tail into the bargain. Clover stepped up to join him, rattling off the details of the encounter (one massive pissed-off Deathstalker, check) and their coordinates into his earpiece for the rest of the team while he snared one of its pincers with the fishing rod’s line.</p>
<p class="western">“We’re going to draw it back to the clearing we passed earlier,” he added – seemed like a solid plan; Qrow followed through, aiming his next strike at one of its carapaced legs to get it to turn in that direction – “Meet us there and be ready!”</p>
<p class="western">“A <em>what</em>?” demanded Harriet in their ears, cutting across Elm’s more useful reply of “Got it! On our way!”</p>
<p class="western">“None of the reports mentioned anything about a Deathstalker in the area,” said Vine, sounding faintly irritated.</p>
<p class="western">The pieces of the puzzle snapped together in Qrow’s head, everything cold and clear and very suddenly obvious.</p>
<p class="western">
  <em>Ambush. And Clover only invited me along at the last minute.</em>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <em>It’s here for him.</em>
</p>
<p class="western">“Yeah, well, it’s <em>here</em>,” he growled, as Harbinger’s blade glanced off one of its armored mandibles, leaving barely more than a scratch behind, “so maybe do as your boss says and get over there!”</p>
<hr/>
<p class="western">“Qrow, <em>down</em>!” shouted Clover, and Qrow threw himself into a roll forward, felt more than saw the strike from the Deathstalker’s tail that went over his head. Came up swinging at the Sabyr on its flanks which had been going for Elm, punched it out because that was easier than getting Harbinger into position to hit it; brought his weapon up as a shotgun as the beast staggered back and opened fire on it. Without looking behind him he knew the Deathstalker’s stinger had been blocked, probably by Clover; it had moved on past him now, behind him, and he turned as the Sabyr dissolved into black ash and swung his greatsword round to hack at one of the monster’s rearmost legs. Elm fell in beside him, rooted herself to the ground and opened fire.</p>
<p class="western">That was when something went <em> crack </em> , halfway across the clearing, and <em> shit </em>that sounded bad, what was it – tree trunk, there, hit by Marrow’s weapon as it ricocheted back into his hand on its way back from slicing up a couple more Grimm yards away from them. There was a gouge down the side of the tree now, a heavy branch hanging loose like it was going to fall. Qrow hacked through the next onrushing monster and shouted “Watch that branch!”, already scanning the area for who was closest to it, where he was in relation to them –</p>
<p class="western">“Got it!” yelled Harriet, sweeping past Qrow with a crackle of her speed semblance, ducking under the Deathstalker’s pincers and leaping high – “Vine!” she called, and grabbed <em>for</em> the broken branch, ripped it off the tree – and Vine, who hadn’t even drawn a weapon yet, caught it in one of his freaky semblance-extended arms and swung it round to bludgeon a Sabyr into the ground before it could tear into Qrow.</p>
<p class="western">
  <em> How can they – </em>
</p>
<p class="western">Not the time. He could be – whatever the fuck that feeling was <em> later </em> . Right now he needed to – to be <em> there </em> where Clover was calling him, to take the heat off Harriet for a second; he could see the opening Clover was pointing him to, to open fire and let Harbinger launch him there in time to slice into the Deathstalker’s pincer claw, and even without wings he could make it there in time.</p>
<p class="western">It should have all been chaos. Distractions. For some reason it wasn’t.</p>
<p class="western">And then Clover got that fishing line looped around the Deathstalker’s stinger barb and <em> pulled </em>, pinning it down to the ground for Marrow and Vine to sweep in from opposite directions and chop the tail into pieces – and that was it, they were going to win this. Only a handful of Sabyrs left – Qrow got the last two with one sweep of his scythe’s blade – and the Deathstalker was no match for the six of them now. Whatever trap Salem’s pawn had been planning on hadn’t accounted for the Ace Operatives’ teamwork. And it hadn’t accounted for Qrow.</p>
<p class="western">“Alright, nice work!” called Clover as the Deathstalker went up in black smoke under their combined firepower. “Good job, everyone! I’ll call this one in and we’ll head back to base.”</p>
<p class="western">“You got it, boss!”</p>
<p class="western">“Indeed.”</p>
<p class="western">“Sure thing!”</p>
<p class="western">Qrow waited for more than that. It didn’t come. No other congratulations, or friendly ribbing, or – even Bree wasn’t boasting about her part in the fight. They trooped off back to the airship’s landing zone more or less in silence, just the same way as they’d come.</p>
<p class="western">Right. Of course. This was Atlas. Atlas military discipline didn’t just stop when the fight was done.</p>
<p class="western">They weren’t even his team. He wasn’t their teammate, he hadn’t been expecting them to have anything to say to <em> him </em>. Just to be on the edges of it would have been – would have been something.</p>
<p class="western">He ought to know better by now than to wish for things he couldn’t get back. <em> Can’t this be enough? </em></p>
<hr/>
<p class="western">Clover was already there when Qrow got down to the training room, but he hadn’t been waiting around uselessly and he wasn’t alone. There were a handful of more junior Specialists in the room too, all grouped so they could pay attention to Clover, even though they were mostly packing their gear away and trash-talking each other’s performance at this point. Well, most of them. Qrow got there just at the right time to see one guy pull off a flashy backflip with a standard-issue grappling hook, throwing in a little flourish as he stuck the landing.</p>
<p class="western"><em>No prizes for guessing where they learned </em> <em> <b>that</b> </em> <em> one from.</em> Clover was such a <em>showman</em>. Qrow found himself smiling at the thought.</p>
<p class="western">Clover saw him then, and his own smile lit up bright and wide. “Qrow!” he called, waving him over, and Qrow crossed the room to join him as the other Huntsmen headed out chattering and laughing.</p>
<p class="western">“You teach on top of everything else, huh?” he called back when he got closer.</p>
<p class="western">“I do anything and everything!” Clover winked at him. “It wasn’t exactly teaching, though, just offering them a few pointers; they’re very skilled already.”</p>
<p class="western">He’d pitched that so it was audible across the room, without being obvious about it. The last Specialist out the door was Lavender Vesper, who was a twitchy little thing only a year or two older than Marrow and twice as anxious, and Qrow saw the way her head lifted and her wings untensed as she heard it. He threw Clover a sideways look: <em>you did that on purpose, right?</em></p>
<p class="western">Clover grinned back at him, in what was probably confirmation, though he didn’t say anything out loud about it. “I didn’t book a slot in here until later on this afternoon, for our regular Ace-Ops training session,” he said instead. “But then I happened to be passing by and I thought of you, and by a stroke of good fortune those guys were just wrapping up.”</p>
<p class="western">His eyes were dancing with humor. And <em>fortune</em> wasn’t normally anything to joke about, as far as Qrow was concerned, but – this was <em>Clover</em> making the joke. And smiling at him like he was inviting him to share it.</p>
<p class="western">Qrow tried on a smile in return. “Lucky you, huh?”</p>
<p class="western">“Lucky <em>us</em>,” Clover corrected. He pulled that fishing rod from his belt, tossed it into the air and caught it. Without looking at what he was doing, of course. “Are you ready?”</p>
<p class="western">In answer, Qrow drew Harbinger, let the greatsword’s blade unfold slow and smooth to its full extent. He raked his hair back from his face. “Oh, you know it, Shamrock.”</p>
<p class="western">Clover gave him a little nod – and attacked.</p>
<p class="western">Qrow was on the defensive right from the start, blocking and dodging, trying to find the rhythm to get a hit in. Not caught off guard, exactly, but – he hadn’t expected the sudden change in Clover’s eyes, that new intent focus. Though of course Clover fought to win, even in a training match; he was a professional, and with aura for protection pulling your strikes even against a friend was a good way to learn bad habits that would get you killed. It maybe shouldn’t have been a surprise.</p>
<p class="western">He bet Clover always won these bouts. Actually, wait, that was probably such a safe bet even <em>he</em> couldn’t lose it, because when Elm and Aaron had had that bet on about Clover’s match with Arguros it had been about whether Alban would land <em>any hits at all</em>. Which of course he had, once or twice, what else would you expect –</p>
<p class="western">His foot slipped out from under him and his next swing went wild as he staggered – hard-light debris on the floor, from where Clover’s weapon had clipped the side of a tower when Qrow had dodged – and the spearpoint caught him in the shoulder hard and knocked him sideways.</p>
<p class="western"><em>Keep your head in the game, Qrow!</em> he snapped to himself, and used his new footing to launch himself forward inside the fishing rod’s usable range to drive Harbinger’s pommel into Clover’s face. He dodged, but not far enough. Qrow got a solid hit in and jumped back before Clover could retract his weapon to get in a return strike.</p>
<p class="western">That was more like it.</p>
<p class="western">He got Clover on the run, chased him from one side of the room halfway to the other, taking shots at him that he mostly dodged. Realized almost too late that Clover had been leading <em>him</em> instead, to the place he wanted him to end up, that that hard-light fortification there could turn from cover to a trap <em>real</em> fast if Clover just turned <em>there</em> –</p>
<p class="western">He flared his semblance instead. Not far, never too far, not among allies, not if he could help it, but – he pushed it just far enough to find a weak point in the wall, so the projection flickered half a second, and cut his way out and through. And because of that Clover’s fishing rod snagged at his sleeve and yanked him sideways into the remains of the wall, but that was just what happened sometimes, and anyway he rolled with the impact and shook it off, no harm done. He caught the next strike of the spear on Harbinger and braced against it, and they locked up, pushing against each other. Their eyes met. Clover disengaged rather than try finding out who was stronger, and Qrow smirked.</p>
<p class="western">Fuck, this was <em>fun</em>. It had been a while since he’d felt this much uncomplicated enjoyment.</p>
<p class="western">And there was the way Clover’s bare arms had flexed as he’d swung himself out of the way, too. <em>Damn.</em> Heat was pooling in his gut, and it almost surprised him, but his grin only broadened. He wasn’t gonna let that distract him from the match now.</p>
<p class="western">The fishing rod’s hook lashed out in an arc, aiming to bind him better this time. Qrow blocked with Harbinger, but Clover only had to flick his wrist to redirect his line –</p>
<p class="western">Qrow saw the motion coming, angled his blade and – <em>there!</em> – triggered Harbinger’s transformation halfway. The sword-blade curved into the scythe for the first time this match, the fishing line catching on its serrated edges, and he turned with the motion and <em>pulled</em> –</p>
<p class="western">“Hah!” he shouted, as the fishing rod slipped from Clover’s hands.</p>
<p class="western">Clover made a startled noise and lunged after his weapon, kicking off from the ground in a leap – and he <em>got there</em> , which Qrow hadn’t expected, or at least he got his hand on the unspooled cable of it and yanked <em>back.</em> And then both their weapons were out of their hands, bouncing and clattering as they hit the floor, and Qrow was off balance and Clover was <em>still rushing forward</em> –</p>
<p class="western">He got in one good punch, dodged both Clover’s strikes. Missed the leg sweep. Tripped backwards into a hard-light wall.</p>
<p class="western">Clover was on him before he could react, and both his arms were pinned to the wall he was up against.</p>
<p class="western">“Damn, you’re good,” breathed Qrow.</p>
<p class="western">“<em>We’re</em> good,” said Clover. He was as flushed as Qrow, and breathing just as hard.</p>
<p class="western">They were pressed up against each other. Qrow could feel Clover’s chest rise and fall. All his firm hard muscles pressed close against him, and his green eyes lit up with excitement – <em>Fuck.</em></p>
<p class="western">Clover’s bright eyes flicked across to where their weapons lay tangled up in each other across the floor. “I really wasn’t expecting you to disarm me like that!”</p>
<p class="western"><em>Yeah, I’m just full of surprises</em> , was the line that rose to Qrow’s lips, but – no. Wouldn’t work like he was expecting. He bit it back, and the next two comments he thought of, which were variations on <em>so you wanted to get me tied up, huh?</em> Something neutral, damnit. He tried to squirm out of Clover’s hold without rubbing up against him <em>too</em> obviously.</p>
<p class="western">“Won’t your team be turning up soon?” he said, after what felt like too long a pause.</p>
<p class="western">Clover stepped back and let him go, checking the time on his Scroll. “Oh! Yes, pretty soon. Hey, if you’re free, would you mind sticking around? We normally go two-on-two – well, normally <em>they</em> do two-on-two and I go up against the winners, but we might as well mix it up a little. See how they do when I have a partner to work with too. We make quite the team, I think!”</p>
<p class="western">“Uh – sure,” said Qrow. “I can do that.”</p>
<p class="western">“Great!” said Clover, with that same old familiar cheery smile he gave everyone. <em>So we’re back to that, are we? Or, wait, no, did we ever </em><em><b>leave</b></em><em> it?</em> Qrow smiled tightly back and busied himself unwinding the fishing line from where it was snagged on Harbinger’s joints. Couldn’t have their weapons still lying around on the floor when the rest of the Ace-Ops showed up, after all.</p>
<p class="western">Qrow would have sworn Clover had been flirting with him lately – what else could you call all that implausible flattery – except for how he’d seemed kind of <em>put off</em> whenever Qrow had flirted back. Or – maybe not <em>put off</em>, exactly. Taken by surprise?</p>
<p class="western"><em>Well</em> , he reflected. <em> It’s not like I really expected him to be into me.</em></p>
<p class="western">But he still couldn’t make much sense of what Clover was thinking, and at this point he was annoyed with himself for not being able to work it out. He had <em>less than</em> no idea where he stood with Clover. The guy should have had a pretty clear idea of who Qrow was by now, surely: a useful guy to have around in a fight, yeah, okay, but also an all-round fuck-up with a dangerous semblance and a drinking problem Clover had seen some of the <em>unfortunate</em> results of first-hand. Clover shouldn’t have wanted anything more to do with him than was necessary for his damn job. But apparently now that included inviting him along to hang out at his team bonding training sessions, of all things.</p>
<p class="western"><em>If he tries to </em> <em> <b>actually</b> </em> <em> recruit me for Atlas to be his fine upstanding number six I’m turning him down flat and fuck the mission. </em> But he couldn’t see Clover trying anything as obviously doomed as <em> that </em>. No, whatever he was going for, it would have to be something more complicated.</p>
<p class="western">Qrow was just going to go with it, for now, anyway. It wasn’t like he was going to <em>turn down</em> whatever was on offer, from a man like Clover Ebi.</p>
<hr/>
<p class="western">“So, I’ve got to say it,” said Qrow, standing in a relaxed pose beside Clover in the observation gallery as, below them, Vine slingshotted Elm across the training room and Harriet yanked Marrow out of the way of the incoming hammer-blow. “A fishing rod? Really?”</p>
<p class="western">Clover smiled and shook his head. “Would you believe you’re not the first person to say that to me?”</p>
<p class="western">“Ugh.” Qrow faked an exaggerated shudder, glancing over at him sidelong. “I hate to be <em>unoriginal</em>.”</p>
<p class="western">Clover’s laugh caught him by surprise. He flipped Kingfisher over in his hand, in its most compact form. It was, objectively, ridiculous. He was well aware of that, but he loved it anyway.</p>
<p class="western">“My instructors at the Academy despaired of me,” he recalled. The memories were fond. “I must have tried every weapon they could get their hands on for me. Swords, maces, hard-light projectors; every type of firearm known to R&amp;D… I trained with a spear for a while, and that was <em>close</em>, but it still didn’t feel quite right. Kingfisher does.”</p>
<p class="western">He looked up, and found Qrow looking at him, and the rest of the story came spilling out. “I grew up in – well, no one’s ever heard of it by name. A little fishing village on the Inland Sea. The type of place that’s too small to need more than a handful of guards and a defensive wall. I must have had a fishing rod in my hand for most of my life. We didn’t have much, but we were happy.”</p>
<p class="western">“Yeah, I’ve known places like that,” said Qrow. His expression was hard to read.</p>
<p class="western">“What about you?” said Clover, pulling himself out of memory lane. “I know your Harbinger’s more of a conventional weapon, but still, you don’t see many scythe wielders around. What made you go with that?”</p>
<p class="western">Qrow glanced away, putting a hand to the back of his neck. “I, uh, always liked the stories about the Grimm Reaper. When I was growing up.”</p>
<p class="western">It was unexpectedly charming, picturing Qrow as a child, enthralled by the dashing dramatized Huntsmen and Huntresses on the broadcast screen, just the same way Clover had been, or pestering his parents for bedtime stories. And even more charming seeing him embarrassed about it now.</p>
<p class="western">“My favorite was always Rainbow Starr,” offered Clover. “She was fictional, though. You were obviously more discerning than I was.”</p>
<p class="western">“Yeah, well, the Grimm Reaper’s dead, and we don’t even know <em>how.</em> So you were probably smarter.” Qrow fished out that flask of his from inside his shirt and took a long drink.</p>
<p class="western">Clover sighed, watching him. “I wish you wouldn’t.”</p>
<p class="western">Qrow turned defensive. “What, am I bringing the mood down? <em>Lowering the tone</em>?” He made a sweeping gesture with the flask.</p>
<p class="western">“I don’t like seeing people unhappy.”</p>
<p class="western">Qrow froze, staring at him.</p>
<p class="western">“When you came back from that search and rescue mission last week,” said Clover, steadily, “I passed you in the hangar, and there was nothing I could have said, but… you were miserable. And I wished you weren’t.” He usually always knew the right thing to say. Here, he felt like he was taking halting steps in the dark, searching for the words. “I want – better, for you.”</p>
<p class="western">Qrow’s expression was doing complicated things. Was he really so surprised to get that kind of consideration from anyone? It was barely more than basic human decency. Clover’s heart ached in sympathy.</p>
<p class="western">“Yeah, well, this is the best you get,” said Qrow after that pause, finally putting away the flask. He offered Clover something that was nearly a smile. “I’m worse company when I’m sober.”</p>
<p class="western">“It’s your life. I don’t have any – right to object.” Still that feeling of fumbling in the dark. Clover hated it, hated that he couldn’t do more. “I just wanted to say it, this once.”</p>
<p class="western">Down below, across the room, Marrow froze Elm and Harriet tripped Vine. Vine grabbed onto the top of a projected wall to swing himself out of the way of Harriet’s follow-up attack, though, and headed for Marrow, who had his back to him. Harriet needed to communicate to Marrow more, Clover noted; he’d bring that up with them after the match was over.</p>
<p class="western">He cast around for another topic of conversation.</p>
<p class="western">“So before that… digression,” he said, putting on a bright smile, “I was going to ask: you told me once you do all the work on Harbinger yourself. Did that include building it in the first place?”</p>
<p class="western">“Sure did.” Qrow gave him a strange look. “Okay, mind telling me why you’re looking at me like <em>that’s</em> something impressive? Every kid in the prelim combat schools in Vale builds their own weapon.”</p>
<p class="western">That was another lost chance to get Qrow to take a compliment, darn it, but in fact Clover was too intrigued by what he was saying to be frustrated this time. “<em>Every</em> student? Really?”</p>
<p class="western">“Mandatory part of the curriculum.” Qrow shrugged. “You have to get an exemption to get <em>out</em> of it. So I guess that’s not how you do things in Atlas? Seems pretty strange to me.”</p>
<p class="western">“Well, I never went to a prelim academy,” admitted Clover, “but I didn’t meet many students at Atlas Academy who’d helped build their own weapons. We <em>designed</em> them, of course. You could have as much input into that process as you wanted, so I <em>suppose</em> people could have forged their weapons from scratch there, and probably someone did…” Expecting it of every student, though? No matter their skillsets? He couldn’t really imagine it.</p>
<p class="western">Qrow looked equally thrown off. “But how’s your weapon supposed to become a proper extension of yourself and your aura, if you didn’t choose every part of it? If you don’t know how it all fits together, backwards and forwards?”</p>
<p class="western">“How is a combat school supposed to produce top-tier Huntsmen and Huntresses if they have to spend half their time learning tangentially related skills like weapon forging?” Clover returned.</p>
<p class="western">“Tangential – That’s not <em>tangentially related</em>, it’s a vital skill!” Qrow’s eyes were lit up with passion now. “Every student needs to know how to do field repairs, install modifications and upgrades –”</p>
<p class="western">“Why would Huntsmen need to do that themselves?” Clover argued. “Specialization exists for a reason, Qrow! I wouldn’t ask an engineer to defend me from Grimm; why would I think I knew better than the repair techs how to upgrade my gear?”</p>
<p class="western">“Sure, if you’ve <em>got</em> repair techs on hand.”</p>
<p class="western">Clover blinked, pulled up short. “Oh. Right.” He hadn’t even considered that. That was… embarrassing.</p>
<p class="western">“Sounds like the Atlas Academy system works fine as long as the students get funneled straight into the military,” said Qrow, more quietly now. “But outside it? I’m not so sure.”</p>
<p class="western">“<em>Most</em> Huntsmen don’t go far from their home city,” ventured Clover. “That must be true in Vale too, surely. Any time you’re in civilization, there are weapons shops, mechanics… But still, you have a point, about the way the Academy is set up. I should have thought about that. So, thank you. I don’t find many people willing to challenge me on my opinions.”</p>
<p class="western">“Oh, I’ll challenge you,” said Qrow, with a grin. “Any time you like.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>If you want to see some of Qrow’s actual childhood as a Grimm Reaper fan, rather than the idealized version he lets Clover assume, there’s a snippet I wrote on my <a href="https://philologer-mosaic.tumblr.com/post/623908490974576640">tumblr</a>!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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